


Let's Hurt Tonight

by NoapologiesNoexcusesNoregrets



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Auror Harry Potter, Awkward Flirting, Bickering, Bisexual people working shit out, Blue daisies, Bottom Draco, Children, Dating in your thirties is hard, Dead Wife - Freeform, Death of a Spouse, Denial of Feelings, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Draco and Harry being stupid, Draco befriending Hermione because life, Draco does not like cats, Draco makes a mean cup of tea, Draco pretending to be clueless, Draco returning the favour, Draco working through some crap, Especially for the Boy-Who-Lived, Even for the Boy-Who-Lived, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Fights, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, GFY, Gay People Being Gay, Gay shit is confusing, Good Draco Malfoy, Grief/Mourning, Gryffindor flirting skills, Harry helping him work through some crap, Harry not putting up with any of that crap, Intense staring contests between oblivious idiots, Lots of Tea, Lots of cakes - Freeform, Love Confessions, Love/Hate, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Meddling Kids, Muggle Life, Owls pooping on cushions, Pain, Post-Hogwarts, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Single Parent Draco Malfoy, Single Parent Harry, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Teacher Draco Malfoy, The Gay is happening either way, The Moon Cafe, Top Harry, Two stubborn idiots doing stubborn idiot stuff, Who Knows?, and awkward, cakes, the gay is strong in this one, who cares?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoapologiesNoexcusesNoregrets/pseuds/NoapologiesNoexcusesNoregrets
Summary: Death. Time. Love.Life.Let's make something real.Five years after his wife's death, Draco is still mourning. He's not ready to let go. His children help to soften the pain of his loss, but Draco won't let himself move forward. He's sure that love like what he and his wife shared only comes along once in a lifetime.Meanwhile Harry is still dealing with the death of his own wife, and the struggles of being a working single father.When Harry's eldest son, James, and Draco's son, Leo, begin their first year at Hogwarts, the two boys meet and become fast friends. As a result, Harry crashes back into Draco's life after over a decade of empty space between them.Draco and Harry go from reluctant ex-enemies to tentative friends. But what happens when things get a bit more complicated?  Can either of them let go of the past completely and choose to move forward? Together. Will Draco and Harry find something in each other that they never knew they wanted?They say love is pain. Harry and Draco know how very true that is.And they're about to find out how worth it love can be.





	1. 'Cause, I built a home

**Author's Note:**

> I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING! ANYTHING I SAY! ALL THINGS BELONG TO JK ROWLING!
> 
> This story is inspired by 'Let's hurt tonight' by OneRepublic.
> 
> When, when we came home  
> Worn to the bones  
> I told myself, "This could get rough."
> 
> And when, when I was off,  
> Which happened a lot  
> You came to me and said, "That's enough."
> 
> Oh, I know that this love is pain  
> But we can't cut it from out these veins,  
> No
> 
> So I'll get the lights and you lock the doors  
> We ain't leaving this room 'til we both feel more  
> Don't walk away, don't roll your eyes  
> They say love is pain. Well, darling, let's hurt tonight
> 
> When, when you came home  
> Worn to the bones  
> I told myself, "This could be rough."
> 
> Oh, I know you feel insane  
> Tell me something that I can explain,  
> Oh
> 
> I'll get the lights and you lock the doors  
> Tell me all of the things that you couldn't before  
> Don't walk away, don't roll your eyes  
> They say love is pain. Well, darling, let's hurt tonight  
> If this love is pain then, darling, let's hurt, oh, tonight
> 
> So you get the lights and I'll lock the doors  
> Let's say all of the things that we couldn't before  
> Won't walk away, won't roll my eyes  
> They say love is pain. Well, darling, let's hurt tonight  
> If this love is pain, then, honey, let's love.......tonight
> 
> -Let's Hurt Tonight by OneRepublic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a house built out of stone  
> Wooden floors, walls and window sills  
> Tables and chairs worn by all of the dust  
> This is a place where I don't feel alone  
> This is a place where I feel at home
> 
> 'Cause, I built a home  
> For you  
> For me
> 
> Until it disappeared  
> From me  
> From you
> 
> And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust
> 
> Out in the garden where we planted the seeds  
> There is a tree as old as me  
> Branches were sewn by the color of green  
> Ground had arose and passed it's knees
> 
> By the cracks of the skin I climbed to the top  
> I climbed the tree to see the world  
> When the gusts came around to blow me down  
> I held on as tightly as you held onto me  
> I held on as tightly as you held onto me
> 
> And, I built a home  
> For you  
> For me
> 
> Until it disappeared  
> From me  
> From you
> 
> And now, it's time to leave and turn to dust
> 
> To Build A Home  
> The Cinematic Orchestra

I never asked for this life. In all honesty, if someone had told me when I first started Hogwarts that I would one day be teaching a class of muggle children how to do their ABC's, then I would have been horrified. I would have said that my father—my _father_ —wouldn't allow that to happen.

When I was eleven years old I thought my father was the strongest, bravest, most important man in the world. I don't think that's particularly odd within itself. Many young boys look to their fathers. It was just unfortunate for me that my father turned out to be a bigoted murderer.

But then, life is like that. Maybe. Sometimes. Or it could just be _my_ life.

I often used to wonder what would have been different if I'd just tried harder to fight my fate. At the time it had seemed inescapable. But now I look back on my choices and realise all the times when I could have said 'no', or at the very least asked ' _why'_. I have to tell myself over and over again that I was young and scared.

I've learnt the hard way that scared people do strange and terrible things out of desperation. I don't think anyone who hasn't experienced true fear could actually understand what it means to live your life surrounded by different doors, and yet still know that you will only ever have the key to one of them.

My father trapped me. Because of his choices, his mistakes, and they _were_ mistakes, I felt like I couldn't be anyone other than who he wanted me to be. Of course now I know that wasn't true. But hindsight is, as ever, mostly useless.

I've tried very hard not to trap my own children in the same way. I want them to have every single choice that exists. I want them to feel free to be themselves, even if the world disagrees. I want them to _fight back_ when someone tries to force them into a corner. Basically, I've pretty much accidentally turned my children into Gryffindors. Childhood me would be horrified by the very thought. I take some comfort in that.

My oldest child, Leo, started Hogwarts this year. He's coming home for the Christmas holidays and he's being dropped off by his new best friend's Dad. I was going to pick him up at the station, but Leo wanted to spend some more time with his friend and I couldn't think of a reason to say no. Not that I would particularly want to, but the thought of facing the father of my son's new best mate is somewhat daunting.

When Leo wrote to me saying he'd made a friend, I was only kind of surprised that his new friend had the surname 'Potter'. I wasn't at all surprised that my son had been sorted into Gryffindor, and I suppose it was inevitable that one of Potter's children would end up in that house.

It made sense to me, in a strange, slightly insane, way, that another one of the dramatic changes in my life had been invaded or influenced by Potter. I feel like every mental thing that has ever happened to me has somehow involved that man, or boy as he had been back at Hogwarts.

I saw Potter at the station of course when I dropped Leo off at the beginning of the year. That day was the first time I'd clapped eyes on the bastard in over a decade. It seemed mad to me that so much time had passed, and yet I still felt a rush of defensive anger hit me when I looked at him. Potter always made me angry simply by existing. I don't know how he does it, and I probably never will. Being angry at Potter felt easy, like slipping on an old and slightly uncomfortable coat. I was genuinely tempted to start hating him all over again on principle.

But then I remembered that I'm supposed to be an adult. A father even. And adults aren't supposed to hate people for no good reason, especially saviours of the wizarding world. Even saviours of the wizarding world who still have the most ridiculous hair and annoying inner goodness. Potter practically vibrates with hero-ness. It's awful. And I'm awful for wanting to smack him for being a good person. Not that that ever stopped me when we were children.

I try my best most days not to think of how terrible I'd been back then. I'm a different person now. Well, mostly different. I'm still not all that nice or kind. I just don't think I'm built that way. It doesn't come naturally like it does for some people. People like Potter. I've long since accepted that.

I was lost for so long after the war. My mother was dead, my father was in Azkaban and would likely stay there for the rest of his life. I had everything taken away from me. Not just my money and my home and my dignity; they took my _magic_. It was decided when I was nineteen that my crimes, as pitiful as they had been, showed me underserving of being a Wizard. The Ministry snapped my wand and sucked the magic right out of my body. At the time it felt like dying. It felt like having my very soul burnt alive inside of me.

I didn't feel shame though. I know they wanted me to. I know that was the true reason behind why they stole my magic. They wanted me to feel sorry. And I was sorry. I was sorry that I couldn't protect my mother. I was sorry that I'd tortured people under Voldemort's rule in a vain attempt to keep my family alive. I was sorry that Severus Snape died.

But I would never be sorry for not turning my back on my family and joining Potter's side. As far as I was concerned they could all go jump off a cliff. I didn't give a shit about what was right or wrong. I don't think I ever really did. I don't think I even thought about it that much during the war. It wasn't about being a good or bad person for me. I did what I had to do to survive.

That's something the light side never understood; could never understand. It's easy to choose the right side when your family and friends are all already on it. It's easy to be a good person when everyone is telling you that's what you _should_ be. It's easy to be a hero when the whole world already thinks you are one.

But some things are what they are. I've known that since I was eleven, and it's one of the few absolutes I haven't let go of.

I was free to go after my trial. No house arrest. Well, they took my house. No Azkaban. Well, I wasn't a Wizard anymore. They just...told me to leave. To leave and not come back. Well, why would I? What would be the point? They took everything from me. They took more than Voldemort ever had.

I was alone. Alone and scared and so bloody tired. I thought about curling up in a corner somewhere and just waiting to die. But I'd survived the war and Voldemort and the Ministry. Giving up, after all that bloody crap, felt like a waste.

So I kept moving. I lived on the streets of Bristol for a few weeks, which was...sobering. More so than the war had been. You truly cannot know how cruel life can be until you have no home, no money, and no purpose.

I was saved though. I was hit by a car. I know that doesn't sound like it could save a person, but being hit by that car saved me. Or, more accurately, the two people inside that car saved me.

Penny and Jamie Moon were a mother and daughter. Both muggles. They were on their way home when they hit me.

It was nine o' clock at night during mid-winter and I was wearing all black. Do the math on that one.

They only caught the edge of my hip when they hit me, so it wasn't like I was going to die. I just flipped over and smacked my head on the pavement. No broken bones or internal bleeding. Just a potentially massive headache and possible concussion. Nothing momentously serious.

I remember the first time I saw her. Jamie, I mean. She was the daughter. Jamie Moon was twenty years old, short, with curly raven hair, bright green cat-eyes, a button nose, and lips that always seemed to be smiling even when she was unhappy. Those eyes of hers threw me off at first. They reminded me too much of someone else. I thought for a second that I was having a nightmare. Only a handful of my nightmares ever included Potter, but the few that did were always the most vivid. It was like even an imaginary version of Potter had to be something bloody special. I'm still a bit irrationally annoyed about that to be honest.

Sometimes I imagine telling Potter about it. About how I would wake up from nightmares about him and be pissed off that he dared feel more real than anyone else in my subconscious. I wonder what Potter's response would be to that information. Probably nothing polite or dignified. I'm not sure Potter knows how to be either. I would tell him about my nightmares and he would say something very tactless and Potter-ish. For some reason it amuses me to think of that scenario.

After a bit of blinking like a twit, I realised quite suddenly that the girl actually looked nothing like Potter. She didn't look like a giant prat for a start. Jamie Moon didn't look like a prat at all. She looked kind. I found out later on that she was kind. Very kind indeed. And so was her mother.

Penny Moon insisted on taking me to the Hospital. I absolutely hated the thought of that. I'd never been to a muggle Hospital before. It sounded dreadful. There would be no magic. No skelegrow. No pain relieving potions. No healing spells. Nothing.

But Penny refused to let me go wandering off without getting myself checked out. The large, frizzy haired, woman practically dragged me off the ground and manhandled me into the backseat of her car. She called me a 'stubborn little tosser' when I tried to escape out the car window halfway through our journey to the Hospital.

Jamie climbed into the back to sit and talk to me. Her voice was low and soothing. Melodic even, if you're going to get poetic about it. She smiled at me like it was completely normal to have a half deranged man in her mother's car. At the time I thought maybe it was. Muggles still seemed so strange to me. Who knew what they actually got up to. Certainly not me. My father never would have allowed it.

"What's your name then?" Jamie had asked, still smiling at me like she thought I might not be a raving lunatic, or a dangerous criminal. Well, I suppose for all she knew, I wasn't.

I was though. A criminal I mean. Not a raving lunatic. And I wouldn't even really consider myself dangerous either. Jamie's mum could clearly beat me to death if she fancied. I was no real threat. At the time, it felt odd, and yet strangely comforting, to know that I really wasn't a threat to anyone anymore. No one would be asking me to murder someone ever again.

My first instinct when Jamie spoke to me was to call her a dirty muggle and rant about how undignified it was to be sitting so close to her. As if she had any right to talk to me at all. Like I said, I'm not a very naturally nice person. My innate meanness was deep. I'd cultivated it for nineteen years, and it wasn't just going to go away because I'd had everything else taken from me.

I managed to stop myself from being outright cruel though. By some miracle. I couldn't stand the way she was looking at me. Like I deserved her help, her kindness, even though she didn't know me, or about any of the things I'd done.

I didn't bother hiding the bored drollness of my voice when I replied to Jamie,

"I do not understand why you would require my name. Isn't it enough that you almost killed me? Did you want to know my name so that you could put it on my gravestone after I die from this head wound that _you_ inflicted?"

I expected her to gasp in shock, or huff her way back to the front seat in anger. Or, possibly, smack me in the mouth like that bloody Granger likely would have. But she didn't. Jamie Moon didn't become enraged at my rudeness. Instead, she laughed. Jamie Moon laughed at me. Right in my face. She _laughed_. Like she thought what I'd said was _funny_.

It shocked the holy hell out of me. All I could do was stare at her. I'd never had anyone laugh at me like that before. Not after I'd just spoken to them so rudely. I began to wonder if all muggles were this insane.

"Did you hear that, Mum?" Jamie called out to her Mum when she finally stopped laughing.

Penny Moon let a loud snort and said,

"I did, love. Bloody melodramatic little sod, ain't he?"

I was so confused that I couldn't help myself from speaking.

"Do you people often do this? Hit someone with your vehicle and then call them melodramatic for being upset about it?"

"Yes." Jamie had said without missing a beat. "Why do you think we were out here in the first place?"

I wasn't sure what to say to that so I kept my mouth shut for once. I started to wonder whether I would come out of this alive after all, as clearly I'd been kidnapped by two muggle lunatics. I thought about how ironic it would be if I was actually killed by muggles just like my father always said I would be if I ever associated with them. Merlin forbid he be proved right after all the hard work I'd put into not automatically hating muggles since I'd become one.

But Jamie and Penny Moon did not kill me. They took me to the Hospital, waited with me for hours that felt more like years, until I was seen by a muggle doctor. Her name was Dr. Pond and she surprised me by not looking like she either pitied me, or felt disgusted by my presence. Dr. Pond was gentle, but brisk, and she gave me my stitches and pain medication with a soft smile.

Merlin only knows what I looked like to her, to all of them. I'd purposefully stayed away from anything that could have shown me my reflection once I'd started living on the streets. I already felt half dead, I didn't need confirmation that I looked it too.

When Dr. Pond was finished with me, she asked where I'd be staying that night. I could see on her face that she already knew I had no home to go back to. I didn't have enough pride left in me to feel embarrassed about it so I told her the truth. And the truth was that I had nowhere to go and likely never would. My father would have hated me for admitting such weakness to three muggle women. But I just...I just didn't _care_.

There's a certain kind of freedom in that I think. As Penny always says when things seem impossible, _'you can get to a point in your life when you've officially run out of fucks to give, and that's when you start to see things for how they really are, rather than how you need them to be'_.

Not exactly a great philosopher, our Penny, but I think her point stands.

Jamie didn't look at me with pity when I told them I had nowhere to go. She reached out and touched my hand. Just a simple touch. But it made me feel...good. Better. Calmer. She looked at me like she saw someone underneath all the grime and spiteful rudeness and grief. I wasn't sure exactly who it was she actually saw underneath all that, but for some absurd reason I wanted to find out.

That's how it all started. Me being hit by a car, laughed at, stitched up, and then touched and _seen_. I think people underestimate the power of being seen, even by strangers.

I know it doesn't exactly sound like the beginning of an epic story. And it wasn't. Epic, I mean. It wasn't chasing dragons through the sky, or hunting monsters, or saving the world. It wasn't epic. It was better than that.

Our story, mine and Jamie's, was better than anything, because it wasn't a story. It was real. We were real, and what we built together was real.

Penny and Jamie Moon took me home with them. They lived above a café. Their Café. _The Moon Café_. It was a business that Penny had built herself, with the help of her daughter.

I was the first man in their lives since Jamie's father left when she was three.

Penny let me sleep in their spare room, and when I tried to leave in the morning, she forced me to sit at her table and eat breakfast. I was almost sick after a few bites of egg. It'd been a while since I'd eaten anything of any real substance. Or even eaten at all, really.

I didn't talk that morning. I thought it better not to. I was bound to say something rude or insensitive eventually. But Penny and Jamie made it hard to stay quiet. They talked to each other like two halves of a whole. I'd never seen two people more in sync. I hadn't even known it was possible to have such an open relationship with your parents. I'd wondered if it was a muggle thing.

I quickly learned, however, that Penny and Jamie were special. Not in the magic sense. Not in the 'a great destiny awaits them' way. They were just special. And they treated me like a person. It had been a long time since anyone had done that. To them, I wasn't a criminal, or a Death Eater, or a Slytherin, or a Dark wizard from a Dark family.

I was a nineteen year old boy without a home.

Penny told me, over toast, that I would stay in their guest bedroom and that I would earn my keep by working in the café. She gave me the chance to refuse, or walk out, or to just say no. Which is another thing that hadn't happened to me in a long time. Having a choice felt like taking a breathe of fresh air into my lungs.

I didn't leave. I slept in the guest room. I worked in the café, which was another learning curve all by itself. The working part. Not the making tea part. I knew how to make tea. I think having the ability to make tea is the one thing all British muggles and wizards have in common.

Penny taught me how to work the till and bake cakes and use a dishwasher. She taught me how to do a lot of things.

Jamie taught me things too. Different kinds of things. Like how to talk to other humans without insulting them with every other word. She taught me when the right time was to be nice, or smile, or finally kiss someone for goodness sake. That last one was my favourite.

I remember our first date to the Cinema, which was half fascinating, half traumatising. I remember our first kiss, our second kiss, and then all the kisses that came after it. I remember all the times she laughed when I said something stupid, and all the times when she called me out on being a complete prat. I remember the day, four years after we met, when I asked her to marry me. I remember when she pretended to say no, and gave me a heart-attack, but then said she was just joking and of course she'd marry me. Because Jamie had a streak of Slytherin in her right down to the core. I remember our wedding day when it rained and we got soaked during the vows because it was the middle of summer, for bloody hells sake, and we refused to leave the roofless gazebo we'd paid an arm and a leg for.

I remember going back to school when Penny told me I needed more in my life than the Café. She said I needed something that was just mine, the same way Jamie had her other job as a piano player and singer at a very popular bar in town. So I went to school to figure out what I wanted. Muggle school. I got my A levels, then my teaching degree. I work at a primary school now. For some reason I have better social skills when dealing with children than I do with adults.

I remember the day my son was born. Penny cried. I cried. Leo cried. Jamie called us all wimps from her hospital bed. I remember my daughter being born. We named her Narcissa, after my mother, but from day one she's been 'Cissa' to us. I remember Leo and Cissa's first words, first steps, first days at primary school. I remember reading them bedtime stories, giving them timeouts (or at least trying to), baking them cakes on their birthday, teaching them how be people in the world.

I remember all the times Jamie and I fought, or bickered, or screamed at each other. I remember every time we made up, and promised to love each other better. It wasn't easy, in fact it was fucking hard most days, but it was worth it. I never doubted that for a single second.

I remember when Leo threw a toy car. Without touching it.

Accidental magic.

I didn't know whether to cry or punch my fist through a wall. So I did both. Then I took a breathe, hugged Leo protectively against my chest, and sat down that night with Penny and Jamie to tell them all the things I thought I'd never have to say.

I told them everything. About magic. Hogwarts. Voldemort. The war. Even Potter. And all the things I'd done.

When it was over, when I was done, Jamie reached out and touched my hand. Just like that day in the Hospital room. The day we met. The day she and her mother saved me by hitting me with their car. Jamie looked at me, and I was _seen_ again.

I knew, then, that we would be ok.

I remember all the Christmases and Birthdays and lazy Sundays with my family. I had a family. A family I'd found and created for myself. A family that I would get to keep for the rest of my life.

Except that wasn't true at all.

Because I also remember the day when the police knocked on my door and told me that my wife had died in a car accident.

We'd come full circle.

One car accident to save my life. Another one to destroy it.

But my life wasn't completely destroyed of course. Because I had Leo and Cissa and Penny and The Moon Café and my job at the school. I still had too much to lose. I _had_ to put Leo and Cissa first.

So I did what all true Slytherin's do; whatever it takes to survive.

That was five years ago now.

My wife died five years ago.

Penny worries that I'm lonely. I tell her that I'm not. How could I be? I have her. Penny reminds me that she has a boyfriend. Which is true. And weird. But Ben is a good man, and he makes Penny feel the same way Jamie made me feel, and I love him for that. I say that I have my children. Penny asks me what I'll do when both Leo and Cissa are at Hogwarts. I tell her that I'll get a cat. Penny says I hate cats.

She isn't wrong.

I tell her I'll have a love-hate kind of relationship with my new pet cat. Penny calls me a weirdo.

Again, she isn't wrong.


	2. In between reality and dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I found my place  
> In a fairytale of thought  
> And all along  
> I thought I'd make it on my own
> 
> To live outside of dreams  
> Meant giving into seasons, oh no  
> It's such a cost to let go  
> Life, it's, it's not as high as love
> 
> In between reality and dreams  
> Is the fight of my will again  
> Before they catch me  
> I'm gonna give myself away  
> And show you life after love
> 
> I always lived inside of my own head  
> And all along, I'd never make it on my own  
> I'll keep a picture on the inside  
> Of my jacket to stay in touch  
> Because I still feel so much  
> Life, it's, it's not as high as love
> 
> In between the black  
> And blue of dreams is a fight  
> Before they catch me  
> I'm gonna give myself away  
> And show you
> 
> Life after love  
> Life after love  
> Life after love
> 
> LIFE AFTER LOVE by Low Vs Diamond

Penny is upstairs getting Cissa ready for bed, and I'm closing up the Café, when Potter drops off Leo. He knocks on the door and I go to unlock it. Our eyes catch through the glass and I'm almost surprised to feel very little animosity towards him. I was worried having to actually interact with Potter would make things more difficult. But Potter just looks at me like I'm someone he vaguely remembers from a long time ago, the same way he looked at me briefly at the station that day.

Despite the lack of instinctual dislike between us, I take note of the fact that Potter's eyes aren't any less intense than they were when he was a teenager. He still looks like he's ready to fight off a hoard of Death Eaters, or like he's just waiting to be attacked by someone/something. I can appreciate the feeling, as even now I find myself occasionally getting flashbacks to the war and almost having a full on panic attack. If I'm being honest, it's gotten worse in the last five years since Jamie died. She was always able to calm me down when I lost myself to the past.

I open the door and Leo runs in past Potter and throws himself at me. I catch Leo in my arms and go down on one knee so that I can be at eye level with him. Leo holds onto me for a full thirty seconds, and I hug him back just as tightly. I've missed my oldest baby. Letters simply aren't enough contact. I wish parents were allowed to visit their children at Hogwarts. Although, then again, I'm not sure I would be able to handle being back in that place. It holds so many awful memories for me. Good ones too, of course. But the shadows that I live with tend to overwhelm everything else.

Leo pulls away from me and grins. He looks like me. Same pale skin, sharp features, and white blond hair. But Leo has his mother's eyes. Bright, almost impossibly vivid, green. I find it hard to look at him sometimes, which makes me feel like a monster. Really, it's Cissa who should remind me of Jamie. She looks just like her mother. Crazy, curly black hair, thick lips that always seem to be pouting, and very small for her age. Penny talks about how much Cissa looks like Jamie did when she was a child. Again, except for the eyes. Cissa has the same pale grey eyes as me.

I've always thought that my children are beautiful. They got the best traits of Jamie and me. But I suppose most parents must feel that way about their babies. Penny tells me that I spoil them too much, which worries me a bit. I was spoiled as a child, and I don't want to raise my children in the same way I was. But sometimes I feel like I've already failed them. Their mother is gone. I can't fill the place she left behind no matter how hard I try.

I stand up again when Leo darts around me, already chattering away at a rate of noughts.

"Dad, can I have a biscuit? A chocolate one? They had chocolate biscuits on the train, but they weren't bourbons. I didn't like them as much as I like yours. Have you baked any cookies? Can I have one if you did?"

I run a tired hand through my hair and sigh. It's been a long day. But at least I'm off from work for the next few weeks for the Christmas holidays. That's one more good thing about being a teacher.

My hair probably looks a state by now. I've been running hands through it all day, getting stressed out by all kinds of rubbish. Not that I care much if my hair looks crap. I haven't cared about shit like that in years. Having children will do that to you.

"Go upstairs and get ready for bed. If you ask your Grandma nicely, then maybe she'll give you a biscuit." I say archly to Leo. Then I add warningly, "And no teasing your sister."

Leo makes a face, but nods in reluctant agreement. Cissa and Leo can be so sweet with each other sometimes, but at other times, they behave more like arch enemies.

Leo makes to run off, but I stop him by saying,

"Leo, say thank you and goodbye to Mr Potter," I actually stumble on the word 'Mr', and I'm almost positive Potter catches it, because a small smirk twists his lips, "and take Balt with you upstairs."

Potter has stepped inside at this point and closed the front door behind him. He's dragged in Leo's trunk, and Balt's cage is resting on top of it. I almost expected Potter to have brought his son, James, but Potter appears have come alone. Through Leo's letters, I have been informed of Potter's situation. Or, more accurately, James'. Potter has three children; James, Albus and Lily. Albus is the same age as Cissa. Lily is the baby at only three years old. Leo also told me in his letters that James' mother, the youngest Weasley, had died shortly after giving birth to her daughter.

When I read that I felt, for what must have been the first time, true sympathy for Potter. I never did when we were back at school. I always hated him too much to feel sorry for him. But I understand now, intimately, how it feels to lose your other half. I know how it feels to be left behind. To be left alone.

I almost wanted to write to Potter, to give him my condolences. But that would have been strange. It's not like Potter and I are old mates. Plus, when Jamie died, condolences meant shit to me. I hated them. And I hated people who thought they had a right to talk about her death like it some tragic thing that happened to _me_.

Potter is watching me with those bastard eyes of his. He's obviously sizing me up, which is fair. I'm doing the same to him after all.

Leo sighs like the most put upon child in the entirety of the universe. He grins at Potter though and says,

"Thank you for having me over, Mr Potter."

"It was no trouble, Leo." Potter appears to be aiming that at both me and my son. Reassurance maybe? "You can visit any time."

Oh Merlin, imagine that. I try to picture myself picking Leo up at Potter's house. Or even stranger, having one of Potter's children in my home to stay the night. After all this time, the concept of Potter and I actually being just vaguely polite acquaintances who's children are friends is still slightly baffling to me.

Leo grins that much wider at Potter. He opens up Balt's cage, and the small black owl climbs slowly out to sit on Leo's shoulder. Without any further hesitation, Leo bolts upstairs with his owl sidekick, in search of biscuits.

I roll my eyes and make a snorting sound, which causes Potter to look at me again. It feels odd to be the focus of Potter's attention without the added anger and resentment that usually tainted our previous interactions. I realise suddenly that we haven't actually said a word to each other yet. So really it could all still go down hill from here, especially without my son around as a buffer.

I move towards the counter, and away from Potter, hoping that distance will make this easier. Or at least less weird.

I can feel his eyes on me though. I've always been able to for some reason. This once I really want to tell him to just stop _looking at me_. But that would sound mad, and I don't actually want Potter to think I still hate him. Our sons are friends, and I won't risk that for the sake of my comfort or pride. Not that I have much of the latter anyway.

So instead of trying to get Potter to leave as soon as possible, I ask him, for Leo's sake,

"Would you like some tea Mr Potter?"

Potter makes a sound that is a cross between a snort and a laugh.

"Come on, Malfoy, you're not actually gonna keep calling me 'Mr Potter' are you? I think we're a little past pretending to be polite to each other."

I turn on him then, drawing up my protective walls, just like I did at school, and snap back,

"Would you prefer if I was openly rude to you instead? Ok then. Potter, would you like a sodding cup of tea, you great, big, prat?"

Potter surprises me by laughing. Not a short chuckle either, but a proper bout of laughter that lights up his whole face like a sparkler. Those stupid eyes of his almost glow with amusement. It makes me kind of want to kick him in the face. Then I remember that I actually did that once, and the need to do so again quells.

"That's more like it." Potter says approvingly. "And yeah, I'd like some tea, Malfoy. Thanks."

I already regret asking about the tea at all. But it's too late now so I heave a great sigh and go around behind the counter to put the kettle on. I look up at a still amused Potter. He 's walking around a bit now, which makes me nervous. I gesture for him to sit down on a stool in front of the counter and say as dryly as possible,

"Sit down, Potter, before you hurt yourself. I don't want you tripping over your own feet and marking my floor."

Potter does as he's told without complaint, which is a bloody miracle within itself. As I go about making both of us a cup of tea, Potter gets himself comfortable on the stool. I watch him discreetly out of the corner of my eye.

Potter looks different. Older, of course, but it's more than that. He's taller, for a start, and broader around the chest and shoulders. He was always such a skinny shit at school. But then, so was I. Potter's face has changed too. Apart from the two day old stubble, his jaw is more angular than it used to be, stronger even. He looks like the kind of bloke who saves the world every day, and then goes home to be a great husband and father. Actually, I don't think there's any such thing as 'that kind of bloke'. It's just Potter. He always seemed larger than life to me. But, at other times, he was the angry fuckhead who drove me up the wall. I don't know how Potter managed to be both of those things to me.

"You look different." Potter says suddenly when I bring over his cup of tea and place it in front of him. His thoughts mirror mine so accurately that it makes me want to take a step away from him.

"I do?" I say, slipping just the right amount of boredom into my tone. "Good to know you've been taking notes, Potter."

Potter rolls his eyes in exaggerated frustration and says,

"Yeah, yeah. I just meant that you look different to when we were at school."

I eye him thoughtfully.

"Yes, well, people tend to change a bit when they stop being children and become adults. I've heard it's quite a regular occurrence among human beings. Your intelligence has clearly improved since our school days if you've noticed it as well. Has Granger finally convinced you to learn to read or something?"

Potter doesn't disappoint me with his reaction this time. His face reddens and he sputters with unmistakable anger.

"Oh, sod off, Malfoy."

It feels almost...good, to still be able to get a rise out of Potter. Back in school there was a time when nothing felt more important than pissing off Harry Potter as much as possible.

"So, how has life after Hogwarts treated you, Potter? Well, I'd imagine." I say 'after Hogwarts' but what I really mean is 'after the war'. I think Potter knows that, because his slightly outraged expression suddenly becomes much darker. Harder. Dangerous even. It's the expression of someone who actually fought in a war.

Potter looks a lot more like the man who murdered Voldemort right now, rather than the boy who I used to play against in Qudditch.

I wonder for a moment if I still look like the boy he once knew, or if the war changed me like it did him. I can't decide which would be worse.

"My life is...complicated." Potter says finally after a long, tension filled, pause.

"Thank you for that in depth evaluation." I say, but without any spite behind it.

Potter snorts-laughs again at that, but he doesn't seem angry anymore. Resigned, maybe, but not angry. He picks up his cup of tea and takes a sip. Then gestures at me with the cup and says,

"Good tea Malfoy."

"I endeavour to please, Potter." I say.

Potter appears amused by this, but doesn't comment. He takes another few sips of tea and then asks in what sounds like genuine interest,

"How about you, Malfoy? Leo's a good kid. Smart. Polite. Very outgoing. Ron almost fainted when he found out James' new best friend was your son. And in Gryffindor."

I almost make a scathing remark about Weasley, the other bane of my existence when we were at school. But I refrain, not wanting to get into an actual fight with Potter so early on in our reacquaintance.

"My life is also...complicated." I reply neutrally.

Potter nods in understanding.

Did Leo tell James about his mother? Would James have told his father? I don't know the answer to either of those questions, but I imagine it would be 'yes' and 'yes'.

"I used to dream about you." I say, unable to stop myself once the words crawl up my throat.

Potter locks eyes with me, but he doesn't seem particularly surprised by my words. Or at least, he's not bothered by them.

"I had dreams about you too, sometimes." Potter admits.

I wonder what kind of nightmares Harry Potter would have about me. Maybe his dreams were similar to mine. Like the one where we're in that bathroom again during our sixth year and firing spells at each other that we shouldn't even of been thinking about, let alone actually using. I had that nightmare over and over again. Each time Potter would hit me with that spell and I'd feel my chest and stomach tear open like they'd been slashed by claws. I'll never forget the pain of it, or the sense of helplessness I'd felt whilst lying on the bathroom floor choking on blood and spit and bile.

I almost used the cruciatus curse on Potter that day. There'd been enough hate inside me for Potter to actually wield it with purpose, instead of the forced anger I'd use on the muggles Voldemort had told me to torture. I still see their faces sometimes. In my dreams. They haunt me, and I know that I deserve to be haunted.

There are some things you just can't take back.

"You made your choices." I say to Potter, not even entirely sure what I mean by it. Potter seems to know though.

His mouth presses into a thin line and he says gravely,

"And you made yours."

Yes. We both had choices to make right from the start. But, after all the things we said and did, somehow the two of us have ended up in a very similar situation. Life is awful and funny like that I think. I don't really believe in fate anymore. Prophesies be damned.

"I hear you're an Auror." I say, clearing my throat pointedly. "Out saving cats from trees and helping old biddies cross roads."

Potter arches a dark eyebrow at me, letting me know he understand and accepts what I'm trying to do.

"Yeah. Something like that." He takes a breathe, as if preparing himself. "I've only recently started work again. I took a leave of absence for a few years after Lily, my youngest, was born." He doesn't mention his wife, although it's obvious that's what he really means.

Potter looks at me, a knowing glint to his eyes. So, Leo must have told James about Jamie. Or maybe Leo told Potter himself whilst he was over at the Potter house. I suppose I can't really be annoyed about it. Not like my wife being dead is a secret or anything.

But even so, I feel myself tense up.

"You adjusting ok?" I ask Potter, not sure of how else to phrase the question.

Potter links his fingers together on the countertop and leans forward a bit. I force myself not to take a step away and keep my arms crossed on the counter.

"Which part? My job, raising three kids as a single father, or not being a husband anymore?" Potter asks.

"Considering all three are linked... take your pick." I say, nonplussed.

I don't know why Potter and I are having this conversation. It's not like we owe each other an explanation. But I won't pretend that I'm not curious.

Potter splays his hands out on the countertop, as if surrendering to a private battle that previously waged inside of him. If that is actually the case then I completely understand how it feels to lose an argument with yourself. You'd think that would be impossible, but no. Even when the only person you're fighting with is you, somehow you can still lose. Don't ask me how that works. There's probably some kind of deep psychological term for it written down in a book somewhere.

Granger would probably know. Jamie definitely would have. Jamie knew all kinds of random facts about abstract things. Whenever we went on a long drive, which I always hated because cars are fucking weird, she would spout odd information at me for no discernible reason. I miss that. I miss a million things that I'll never have again. I try to tell myself to be glad that I ever had them at all. But that feels like a lie. I'm still too angry to be grateful yet.

Potter puffs out a breathe and looks me in the eye again. I don't know what his new thing with eye contact is about, but it's getting to be a bit unnerving. The last person I ever want to be _seen_ by is Potter. He knows too much about my life without actually knowing me at all.

Truth is, I don't really know Potter either. He's just the boy I once hated. He's the Boy Who Lived. Or was. Potter could be an entirely new man these days, and honestly, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference due to how little I actually knew him when we were young.

"Work is hard. Busy. Painful, sometimes. It's like I never left the office." Potter says, without inflection. Those green eyes become a bit brighter when he continues, "I love my children. They're more important to me than anything else has ever been. But trying to be everything they need sometimes feels impossible."

"It is impossible." I tell him, because it's the one thing I can offer to this conversation that I know for a fact is true. I can't tell him it will get better with time, because grief doesn't give a shit about time. I go on, "But you can try. You can try and try and keep on trying until the day you die, and then maybe, your children will never know all of the things that were taken from them. You'll know. You'll always know. But our job is to make sure our children don't ever have to feel it."

I've got Potter's attention again, and he's watching me like he thinks I might actually know what I'm talking about.

I can't not laugh.

Now Potter's looking at me like I've lost every single one of my marbles.

"Why are you laughing?" Potter asks, clearly bewildered.

Through my laughter I manage to get out,

"Your face, Potter! Merlin, I never thought there would come a day when we'd be in agreement about anything."

Even if the thing we're agreeing on is the state of our grief, it's still a bit ridiculous.

Potter snorts, half in amusement, half...something else. Something more angry and bitter than is probably warranted.

"It's not like we ever used to sit around debating things, Malfoy."

True. Potter would have been hard pressed to agree with me calling his friends ugly names, especially Granger. I still have to stop myself from wincing whenever I think about the word 'mudblood'. It tastes nasty on my tongue, like a curse gone wrong.

"I don't suppose we can call what we used to do 'debating'. Or even arguing really." I muse.

"More like throwing insults and knocking seven bells out of each other with magic every chance we got." Potter says.

I tap two fingers on the countertop and say,

"Ah, yes, well, one does not debate with those of lesser intelligence. Especially half-bloods."

For once in all the time we've known each other, Potter manages to pick up on the sarcastic edge to my tone. It's another one of those Christmas miracles. Either that or Potter really has gained some new brain cells in the last decade.

Potter actually cracks another smile, and his voice holds an air of teasing when he says,

"Oh, is that another one of your fake rules for gits and ponces? No debating with Half-bloods?"

"Potter, are you taking the piss out of the Pureblood code of honour?" I say as pompously as I can, whilst turning my nose up at Potter in mock derision.

Potter makes one of those half choked sounds of suppressed laughter.

"Malfoy, come on, would I ever do that? You know I have nothing but respect for the Elitist snob society."

I smirk at him.

"I think you'll find it's actually the Elitist snobby git society, Potter. And you would know that if you were raised _properly_."

Something dark passes over Potter's face then, like I've accidentally struck a nerve. It feels a bit strange to have not done it intentionally. Even stranger to feel like I should apologise for it.

"Look, Potter," I say with a deep sigh, all traces of humour disappearing as if they'd never been there, "I didn't mean….I wasn't trying to insult you or the way you were raised."

Considering the fact that I know fuck all about how Potter was raised, it'd be pretty stupid of me to try and take the piss out of him for it. I probably still tried to do that when we were in school, but to be honest I don't remember every insult or snide remark I ever made to Potter. It was ages ago. Sometimes it even feels that way. There are other mornings, however, when I wake up still expecting to be in the Slytherin dorm.

I can never decide whether I feel relieved or disappointed to find that I'm not a small minded teenage boy anymore. Being an adult is hard, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Not that being a teenage boy was all unicorns and rainbows for me, considering the war and Voldemort threatening to have me killed if I didn't join his army of lunatics.

I'll admit, that part was a little stressful for me.

I can't even imagine how it must have been for Potter. He was the focus of Voldemort's rage. Taking over the world seemed secondary to killing Harry bloody Potter. I won't lie, at the time, I agreed with the sentiment wholeheartedly. Potter was very annoying. I would have waged my entire vendetta against him too if I could.

Potter studies me with an almost invasive intensity. His expression is unwaveringly piercing. I want to recoil from that look on his face. Potter isn't what I would call 'observant', but with a steady, powerful, gaze like that….he must make one hell of an Auror; especially during criminal interrogations.

I try to imagine it. Being hunted down and arrested by _Harry Potter_ , the man who killed Voldemort and saved the world. More than once. It's bizarre enough to be comical. Or terrifyingly idiotic. How arrogant would a criminal need to be to think that they could win out against The-Boy-Who-Always-Somehow-Someway-Survives-Certain-Death? Extremely so, most likely.

"Did you just sort of pre-emptively apologise to me?" Potter asks. I can't get a read on his tone. He sounds ….curious?

Apparently it's a serious question, because Potter just keeps on staring at me like the giant prat he so clearly still is.

I roll my eyes as dramatically as I can manage and reply,

"No. Of course not. I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't get the wrong idea and have one your fury fits."

Potter cocks a dark eyebrow at me.

"'Fury fits'?" He questions.

I wave a hand in his direction and explain impatiently,

"You know, Potter. That thing you do when you get really angry and blow up like an ignited fuse."

"I do not have fury fits." Potter argues narrowly.

I scoff at that.

"Yes, you sodding well do. I was on the receiving end of quite a few of them. You have anger problems, Potter. Or at least you did."

I think he still probably has anger issues. People don't change that much. Even if Potter is calmer now, I bet he still flies off the handle spectacularly if you push him past a certain point. Funnily enough, Potter's quick to get extremely pissed off nature was the one thing I actually liked about him in school. After all, it's no fun messing with someone who doesn't react in a satisfactory manner.

"Are you trying to start a fight with me, Malfoy?" Potter growls, already getting that 'ready to rumble' look in his eye. His hand even twitches like he wants to hit me, or maybe reach for his wand and curse me.

A large part of me wants to rise to the bait. Sharing jibs with Potter is, and has always been, somewhat exhilarating. Mostly because, no matter what, Potter never backs down. He's like a stubborn bull who will not be moved by man nor beast nor insidious Dark lord.

It must be exhausting to be Harry Potter. I know it's exhausting to be me. My own stubbornness is just as much a problem.

"Good job proving me wrong, Potter." I say dryly. "Clearly you have your anger completely under control."

"Do you _always_ have to be such a git?" Potter grits out with barely concealed hostility.

"Do you _always_ have to make out like I'm the one with the problem?" I fire right back.

"You _are_ the one with the problem. You're the one who started this." Potter snaps, his hand curling into a fist on the countertop. I don't think he'd actually hit me, but the threat is still there, so I react to it.

"Oh, wow, 'you started it'? Is that your argument? Very mature Potter. Are you going to give me a Chinese burn next?"

I only know what that is because I get at least one student a day come running in during breaktime to cry about it to me. Then I have to go and have a talk with a six year old about how it's wrong to hurt or bully a person just because you don't like them. I still haven't quite let go of the irony of it being part of my job to explain things like that.

"If I thought it would get you to shut up for once, I _might_." Potter barks, which is, obviously, ridiculously stupid. So much so that it actually surprises a laugh out of me. It forces a laugh out of Potter as well.

Potter laughs. I laugh. We both laugh. It's not even funny. Except that it is. It's painful too. It's funny and painful, in a way that I don't think anyone apart from me or Potter could understand.


	3. I believe that today it’s okay to be not okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I believe if I knew where I was going I’d lose my way  
> I believe that the words that he told you are not your grave  
> I know that we are not the weight of all our memories  
> I believe in the things that I am afraid to say  
> Hold on, hold on  
> I believe in the lost possibilities you can see  
> And I believe that the darkness reminds us where light can be  
> I know that your heart is still beating, beating, darling  
> I believe that you fell so you would land next to me  
> 'Cause I have been where you are before  
> And I have felt the pain of losing who you are  
> And I have died so many times, but I am still alive  
> I believe that tomorrow is stronger than yesterday  
> And I believe that your head is the only thing in your way  
> I wish that you could see your scars turn into beauty  
> I believe that today it’s okay to be not okay  
> Hold on, hold on  
> 'Cause I have been where you are before  
> And I have felt the pain of losing who you are  
> And I have died so many times, but I am still alive  
> (Hold on) This is not the end of me, this is the beginning x 5
> 
> I Believe By Christina Perri

When we've finally calmed down enough to speak, Potter breaks the tension by saying,

"Hermione mentioned you the other day."

The world slows down around me.

"She did?" I say tightly, unable to hide the irritation in my voice.

Potter tilts his head in that annoyingly inquisitive way of his.

"Don't start." Potter says, and he raises a placating. "She didn't tell me anything about….well, anything. She just said that she'd been speaking to you. That's all."

I should probably explain why I've been in contact with Granger at all. It's nothing nefarious or dramatic really. Hermione works for the Muggleborn outreach department within the ministry. Part of her job is visiting the homes of Muggleborns who are sent a Hogwarts letter and helping the family learn more about the Wizarding world.

I hadn't been expecting it, although I probably should have, when Hermione showed up at the Café one day. Leo had received his Hogwarts letter about a week before, along with the list of things he would need. I just figured that I would take him to Diagon Alley and hope like hell that no one would recognise me. I didn't feel like subjecting my son to any old layers of hatred.

I'm not ashamed of who I am, and I never want my children to be made to feel like they don't belong in the Wizarding world just because I'm no longer welcome there.

I'd been shocked to find Hermione Granger knocking on my door. She looked only slightly less uncomfortable than I felt. I invited her in after she introduced herself, like I wouldn't know who she was. At the time I thought that if Granger was determined to be polite and formal about it all, then I could accommodate her.

But that sort of fell apart after Hermione met Penny, Leo and Cissa. She watched me and family in what could only be described as rapt fascination as we interacted with each other. I imagine it must have been quite a shock for her to see me in such a muggle setting. She didn't comment on it however, even though I could tell she was dying to ask questions.

No, the real inquisition didn't come about until the second time she visited me. Although, to be fair, that second time was more social than official so I suppose that made the difference.

Merlin help me, but I've actually befriended Hermione Granger.

She was very supportive of Leo and I could tell that she cares about doing her job right. It took a lot of stress off my shoulders to have Hermione's assistance in getting my son prepared for Hogwarts. I never once felt like Hermione resented having to help me. She told me only recently that she was glad we'd had the chance to meet again.

Weirdly, I feel the same way.

As sad as it probably sounds, Hermione is the first real friend I've made since my wife died. After Jamie's death, I just couldn't find it in myself to want to be social with anyone.

Hermione and I don't talk about Potter. In fact we very purposefully skirt the topic whenever possible. She would tell me things about her life, and of course she would mention Potter because he's still her very close friend, but we never actually openly discuss him.

I imagine Hermione affords me the same respect by not discussing her relationship with me to Potter. Even though I believe that, it still feels a bit odd to think of Hermione mentioning me at all to Potter.

"Alright." I say to Potter, willing to let it go for now. "How is she?" I ask.

"I think you'd know better than me to be honest." Potter says, but not unkindly. "She's been spending more time with you than me lately. Since I started back at work. We've both been busy."

"Isn't Weasley staying with you?" I ask, remembering a conversation Hermione and I had just last week.

Potter grimaces a bit, but then flashes me a wane smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"And then there's also that."

I only know what Hermione has told me, so it's not like I have the full picture. But from Hermione's perspective, she and Weasley got married in their early twenties. According to Hermione, everything was going well between them until they started trying to have children. After a few years of no success it became clear that there was a problem.

Hermione went to get checked out by both Mediwizards and muggle Doctors. They both told her she would very likely never be able to get pregnant. Hermione told me how devastated she was. But not, apparently, as devastated as Weasley. They looked into adoption and other such methods, but Hermione said that her marriage with Weasley slowly fell apart and unravelled anyway.

Sometimes that happens. Marriage isn't the be all and end all of a relationship. There were plenty of times when I worried that Jamie and I would one day decide that we had more problems than happiness in our marriage. I had hope though, and I'd been willing to fight for what we had, no matter what else happened. If she'd lived I would have kept on fighting for Jamie until the day I died.

Hermione and Weasley had a divorce three years ago. About a year after their divorce Weasley got his girlfriend, Katie Bell, pregnant. They have twins, Meghan and Sam. Weasley and Bell are getting married on Christmas Eve, and Weasley is apparently staying with Potter in the week before the wedding.

I now know far more about Weasley's life than I ever wanted to. But Hermione _is_ my friend, and she's listened to me moan on and on about plenty of my own crap, so fair's fair.

"Do you support one above the other?" I ask Potter, finding myself genuinely interested, which is stupid for numerous reasons.

Potter frowns in contemplation and replies steadily,

"I never took sides, if that's what you mean. They're my best friends, but what happened between them was- _is_ -their business."

True enough.

"Well I'm biased-" I start, but Potter cuts me off with a wry smirk.

"What? You, Malfoy? Biased? I don't believe it." Sarcasm practically drips from his mouth.

"Don't try and be clever, Potter. It doesn't suit you. Stick with what you know." I say scornfully.

Potter arches an eyebrow inquisitively,

"And what do I know?"

"Blundering in head first without any sense of self preservation at all." I reply without pause.

I expect Potter to get on his pissy bus again, but apparently he really has calmed down some. Either that or he's finally lost it. He laughs self deprecatingly and says,

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

I huff out a breathe,

"Stop agreeing with me Potter. It's creepy and wrong."

"Your face is creepy and wrong." Potter quips, still appearing far too amused for his own good.

"Oh, and here he is, the great Harry Potter, master of insults. I bow down in the face of your rapier wit." I drawl.

Potter, the bastard, just smirks at me again. He opens his mouth to speak, probably to say something that will make me want to poke him in the eye, but just then Penny comes crashing through the back door that leads to our flat. She's already shouting at me before she even clocks Potter.

"Draco, I swear, if that bloody owl poos on another one of my cushions then I will strip him of his feathers and use them for stuffing a new one!"

Penny comes striding over me to, dish towel in hand, and whacks me over the head with her weapon of choice. She turns her attention to Potter then and narrows her eyes suspiciously at him. Penny says,

"O-er, who's this then? He's not another one of your magicians is he?"

I feel a pin drop of satisfaction when Potter's eyes widen comically in reaction to Penny. She is quite a force of nature. Despite her small size, she's very strong and fierce. I was afraid of her a bit when I first moved in here. Well, to be honest, I'm still a bit afraid of her now. It's just common sense really. Not that Potter would know anything about that.

Potter holds out his hand, presumably to shake Penny's, and says,

"I'm Harry, James Potter's father. I was just dropping off Leo."

Penny eyes Potter thoughtfully. She looks pointedly at the half drunk cups of tea in front of us, and then up at me. I see a question on her face that I'm not sure how to answer.

"Yeah, he's a _Wizard_ , Penny." I put extra emphasis on the word 'Wizard', even though I know it'll do no good. Penny always refers to Wizards and Witches as 'magicians'. I tried to explain the difference, but Penny just shrugged and said it was all the same to her, which I suppose is true. No muggle could really understand what it feels like to have magic. Or what it feels like to lose it.

Penny waves a hand broadly in a dismissive gesture and returns her gaze to Potter. She regards him with mild interest. I'm immediately concerned. I do not want Penny to take any kind of interest in Potter. He's already invaded enough of my life as it is. First one of his best mates declares herself my new BFF (another term I only know from my slightly older muggle students). Although I suppose it's not fair to tar Hermione with the same brush as I do Potter. She's not his sidekick anymore. If anything, by all rights, Potter should have been Hermione's sidekick for all those years. Merlin knows he would have never survived to the age of seventeen without her.

Anyway, then Potter's son befriended Leo, against all fucking odds. And now Potter is sitting in my family's café drinking tea that I made him.

Bizarre doesn't even begin to cover it.

"Isn't this the one who wouldn't shake your hand when you were children?" Penny asks me, but without looking away from Potter.

Potter's eyes dart over to me and he says incredulously,

"Bloody hell, Malfoy, are you seriously still telling people about that?"

I sniff at him and cross my arms over my chest defensively, unable to help myself from snapping back,

"Yes. I use it as an example to my children and my students about blatant and uncalled for rudeness."

"All those years of experience and _that's_ the example of rudeness you go for?" Potter scoffs.

"No. Not always. Sometimes I tell them about the time when you tried to kill me." Which is a lie, but that's not the point.

"That wasn't me being rude, Malfoy, that was me defending myself."

"It was you being a giant prat, as per usual."

"Only because you were being an even worse git."

"You were the one stalking me!"

"Yeah, to find out what you were up to."

"Your detective skills were clearly top notch, Potter. Only took you a whole bloody year to figure out that I was up to 'something' and that you should just off me for the sake of it." Which I also know is complete bollocks. Whatever else I might think about him, Potter would never kill someone just because he felt like it. But, again, that isn't the point.

I don't know what the point is actually. But there is one. I know that much. And Potter's a tosser. So there's that. There's always that.

Potter is glaring at me now in that annoying, unfairly intense way of his. I'd be afraid of that look on his face if I wasn't so used to seeing it directed at me from during our school years. I glare back at Potter with equal vehemence. I also add a bit of disdain to my expression. For old times sake. Mostly.

Penny clears her throat. Loudly. Very, unnaturally, loudly.

I have to force myself to look away from Potter. I can feel those green pits of fire boring into me still though.

"Speaking of rudeness." Penny says, directing a stern look at me, "Are you planning on introducing me properly any time soon?" Not that Penny needs me to introduce her to anyone.

"Potter." I say, "This is Penny. Penny, this is Potter."

Penny whacks me again with her dishtowel of doom. I don't bother flinching away from her. A dishtowel blow to the head isn't so bad all things considered.

Potter looks both surprised and pleased at the sight of me getting hit with a dishtowel. Penny, of course, notices this and reaches over the bar to whack him over the head. Potter sucks in a breathe and ducks, those lightning Auror reflexes revealing themselves with ease. I thought Potter was always a clumsy idiot. Maybe the Auror training knocked that out of him.

Penny points at me and says,

"Right you, stop pouting." Then she whips around and points at Potter, "And you, stop antagonising." She huffs at both of us, "You're thirty-five years old, the pair of you, act like it."

"Sorry." Potter mumbles, like he really is a naughty school boy. He looks abashed, and his cheeks are pink with embarrassment. Good.

I pretend to nod apologetically, but as soon as Penny looks the other way I shoot a triumphant look at Potter. In return Potter pokes his tongue out at me. Bloody tosser. So fucking immature.

I poke my tongue out back at him.

"I saw that, boys." Penny admonishes as she takes our now cold cups of tea away from us. She ambles over to the sink to wash them up.

"Sorry, Penny." Potter and I say in unison.

Potter's eyes lock onto mine again, and we engage in yet another weird staring contest that just gets weirder as it goes on. It's those eyes of his. So green and fucking intense and alive. Harry Potter has always been so _alive_. Impossibly so, I think, given all the things he's been through. No one should have the right to look as alive as Potter does. He wears his every emotion like an aura that everyone can see.

Penny clears her throat, even louder this time, and the connection breaks between me and Potter. He looks away, and then up at the clock on our wall. It's a blue clock in the shape of a star. Jamie and I bought it together not long after I arrived here. I accidentally broke their old clock when I was painting the back wall. I panicked at first, thinking that surely Penny and Jamie would ask me to leave after I was so stupidly clumsy. What use could they possibly have for a boy who couldn't even paint a wall without fucking it up?

But Penny had just laughed and said that she'd never liked that clock anyway. She said it was about time they got a new one.

Jamie took me into town to buy a clock. She let me pick it out. I thought a star shaped clock would fit in with the Moon Cafe's space theme. Jamie and I went to get lunch together afterwards. Then we went to the park, and sat by the pond. We fed the ducks, and Jamie told me that the clock I'd broken was the only thing they had left that had belonged to her father. I'd been horrified when she said that, and started apologising all over again. Jamie just smiled at me and asked if I believed in omens, because she was pretty sure me breaking that particular clock meant something.

I asked her what she thought it meant. Jamie said " _That the end of one thing can mean the beginning of another. Maybe even something you never expected or knew you wanted before_.".

Potter brings me back to the present by saying,

"It's getting late. I better get back. Ron's watching the kids."

"All three of them?" I ask, despite myself.

Potter doesn't seem fazed that I know he has three children. He replies,

"Yeah. James can mostly handle himself, and Albus is the quiet sort, but Lily can be a handful, especially when she gets tired. Plus, if Albus and James decide to get into one their rare, but epic, fights, then I might go home to find my house on fire."

I smile slightly at that and say,

"Yes, I understand. Leo and Cissa both have penchants for explosive accidental magic."

I can't decide if it's ironic or not that both my children appear to be exceptionally powerful, even at their young age. In another life I would have been smug about that. I am proud of them, of course, but not because they are powerful. I'm proud because they are my children, and I love them more than I knew it was possible for me to love another human being. I was in love with Jamie, with all my heart and soul. But the love I have for my children is unique and unlike anything else I've ever felt in my life. I can't compare it to anything. It just _is_.

Potter and I share a look of commiseration. The path of parenthood is not, and will never be, for the faint of heart.

"Right, I'll...I'll just be off then." Potter says. His voice holds a note of...hesitation. I find myself equally as hesitant to say goodbye. I have no idea why either of us would feel that way. Maybe it's just because neither of us could ever resist a good fight. And no one ever fought me like Potter does.

I'm not sure what else to do, so I just nod at him.

Potter doesn't leave. He just keeps looking at me. Searching my face. For what, I don't know. He seems to find it though, whatever it is, because he says,

"James asked me if he could see Leo again during the Christmas holidays...I told him I'd speak to you about it. I completely understand if you've already got plans, but just in case you don't...maybe one day we could take the kids somewhere. I promised James and Albus that I'd take them to the Aquarium next week. If you wanted to..." Potter trails off, leaving me to fill in the obvious blanks.

Go to an Aquarium with Potter. With Potter and his kids. Go to an Aquarium with Potter, his kids, AND my kids.

I can't think of anything more insane and ridiculous.

"No, I don't really have plans for next week. What day were you thinking?" I ask Potter.

Potter barely manages to hide his surprise at my easy acceptance. I take some satisfaction in that, although internally I'm calling myself an idiot for even entertaining this madness.

Potter recovers quickly and says,

"Uh, Wednesday maybe?"

"Wednesday would be good." I say carefully. I can feel Penny watching me discreetly. I'm not sure what she must be thinking right now. I don't even really know what _I'm_ thinking to be honest.

"Ok, so...can we meet you here?" Potter asks, still sounding tentative and unsure of himself.

I kind of want to smack him for it, even though I'm feeling just as confused.

"Yes. About ten o' clock?" I offer with more confidence than I actually have.

"Sounds good to me." Potter says with another one of his genuine smiles. Now I definitely want to smack him. He starts walking towards the door. "I'll meet you here at ten o' clock on Wednesday." Potter waves a hand at Penny. "Thank you for the tea, Penny, and for the dishtowel smack."

"Anytime, Harry Potter." Penny says, purposely using his first and surname. "For both the tea and the smack."

Potter laughs, loud and deep, as he walks out the door and promptly disappears in flash of magic.

I avoid looking Penny at first. But Penny is a patient woman. Like a vulture waiting out a dying buffalo. Eventually I can't take it anymore and I turn to look at her.

"What?" I ask exasperatedly.

Penny arches an eyebrow at me and snorts. She says,

"I think you missed something out when you were telling me and Jamie about that boy, Draco."

'That boy' obviously meaning Potter.

I play dumb, mostly because I don't know what I'm pretending not to understand.

"What would I have missed out? I told you all the things we did to each other."

Penny shakes her head at me and says,

"If you don't know, then I'm not gonna tell you. You can work it out for yourself, son."

I scrunch my nose up at her,

"Work out _what_?"

Before Penny can respond, I hear a voice from behind,

"Daddy, can you tuck me in now?"

I turn around to see Cissa standing there in her pyjamas and holding a stuffed owl teddy. She's had it since she was a baby. It was the first toy I ever bought her.

"Yeah, sweetheart, lets go."

I go over to Cissa and pick her up. Without looking back at Penny I carry Cissa upstairs so that I can tuck her in to bed.

I try to push all thoughts of Potter from my head. It's the only way I'll hold onto the remaining strands of my sanity.

Besides, there are more important things. Like reading Cissa a Far Away Tree bed time story, and trying make sure Leo doesn't stay up all night playing games on his laptop. And washing the owl poo off of Penny's favourite cushion before she notices and commits owl murder.

Yeah, far more important things than Potter. Right.


	4. Heaven knows, I could really use a friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I saw a ghost on the stairs,  
> And sheets on the tables and chairs,  
> The silverware swam with the sharks in the sink,  
> Even so, I don't know, what to think.  
> I've been longing for,  
> Daisies to push through the floor,  
> And I wish that plant life would grow all around me,  
> So I won't feel dead anymore.  
> So I won't feel dead anymore.
> 
> I saw a bear in the den,  
> Reading my textbooks again,  
> That bats flowed like traffic as they poured from the attic,  
> Heaven knows, I could really use a friend.
> 
> Today I'm busting out,  
> Of this old haunted house,  
> 'Cause I'm sick of waiting for,  
> All the spider webs to grow all around me,  
> 'Cause I don't feel dead anymore.  
> And I'm not afraid anymore.
> 
> Plant Life by Owl City

"You and Harry are going on a playdate?" Hermione asks for about the billionth time since I made the colossal mistake of telling her all about my 'conversation' with Potter. To be fair, I thought Potter would probably mention it the next time they met up, so there seemed no point in keeping it a secret. I am regretting that assumption tenfold right now.

Hermione has the same expression on her face that she's had on since I first brought up the Wednesday Aquarium visit, otherwise known as the inevitable future disaster. Her eyes are wide and full of a shocked disbelief that is, frankly, almost offensive. I think if Hermione were a little less educated a person she'd be full on gaping at me like a guppy fish.

I hold up one finger in front of her face, no not that one, and say firmly,

"Alright, first of all, it is not a 'playdate'. Potter was simply asking on his son's behalf if James and Leo could spend more time together. Since Potter was already planning on going to the Aquarium, it made sense for us to meet there. On neutral ground." I hold up a second finger, and no still not like that, and continue, " And secondly, it isn't about us. Potter and I are doing it for the sake of our sons' happiness and continued friendship."

Hermione's expression finally changes. Unfortunately I'm not overly fond of the smirk that now curls her lips like a Cheshire cat. I don't know what she has to look so pleased about, and to be honest I don't think I want to know either.

Then, quite suddenly, the shocked look is back and she asks in what sounds like genuine bemusement,

"Wait, did you say that Harry asked you out on a playdate?"

That's it, I've changed my mind again, muggleborns truly are insufferable people. Or maybe it's literally just Hermione who's this annoying all the time. Yes, actually, that'll be it. I find myself strangly taken with other muggleborns and I would hate to think ill of them. For example, Luna Lovegood's adopted muggleborn sons, Xavier and Kassian. I find them pleasant to be around, and I wish I had more children like them in my class.

Quite how I've found myself, here, associating with the likes of Hermione Granger and Luna Lovegood, is beyond me. I can only assume that it is some kind of belated punishment for how much of an arse I was back in school. Oh how my old Slytherin companions would mock me now.

It's Chrismas day and I'd previously agreed to spend both Chrismas eve and Christmas day at Hermione's rather large cottage by the beach. I thought Hermione was more of a townhouse sort of person. A city girl even. But apparently she enjoys the quiet seaside life when outside of her busy, and often stressful, job.

Since her split with Weasley, Hermione has, understandably, found Christmas to be a rather awkward time of year. Previously she'd spent almost every holiday with the Weasley's large family, plus Harry and his lot. But because of the divorce Hermione had been forced to come up with alternate plans.

For the first year Hermione tried spending Christmas with her parents, but that proved to be a very awkward affair due to her recent divorce and the fact that Hermione isn't as close with her parents as she once was. Hermione has confided in me that they never quite forgave her for what she did to them during the war. When Hermione told me she'd oblivated her parents, I was only mildly surprised. Hermione does have a strange sense of morality, especially for a Gryffindor. She'd of made a good Slytherin in another life. I always thought the same of Jamie.

Hermione's second Christmas after the divorce was spent with Potter, who managed to escape the clutches of his Weasley family for at least one day. Say what you like about Potter, and I've said plenty, but he seems to be a loyal friend. Hermione said Potter took on both Weasley's wraith and his mother's so that he could have one Christmas day alone with just his children and his female best friend.

Hermione almost resigned herself to having a very lonely Christmas last year, but luckily, or very weirdly depending on how you look at it, Luna Lovegood came to the rescue. Lovegood works in the magical creatures department one floor down from Hermione's. A few years ago Hermione helped Lovegood adopt two muggleborn children who's parents both decided they didn't want magical children. The two became quite close friends as a result of their time together. When Lovegood found out Hermione would be alone for Christmas, she practically strong armed the other woman into coming to the Lovegood house for the holidays.

This year, Hermione has invited myself, my children and Penny to stay, as well as Lovegood and her boys. I mostly agreed to it for two reasons, one because Kassian is another one of Leo's friends from Hogwarts, which means Leo gave me his best puppy eyes until I said yes. And two, because Penny thought it would be a good idea to celebrate Christmas somewhere other than our flat. I think she worries that holidays are depressing for me because it makes missing Jamie even more unbearable than usual. I wish I could explain to her that I don't need a holiday to make missing Jamie painful. It's always painful.

But sometimes the pain dulls to a ongoing ache that I can pretend I don't notice. I can act like I've gotten used to it. If practically being held hostage for a year by Voldemort did one thing for me, it taught me how to hide emotions I'd rather not show. I can scream on the inside these days, and still hold a polite conversation with someone. Surviving grief is a never ending trick of misdirection, as well as a lesson in self-control.

"Potter did not ask me out on a date of any kind. Don't be mental." I snap irritably at Hermione.

Hermione tilts her head to the side and regards me with discomforting thoughtfulness. One should always be wary when a clever person takes an interest in them. They might end up seeing more than you want them to.

Hermione says reasonably,

"I'd hoped the two of you would be able to have a civilised conversation, as I believe you are both capable of such a feat-"

I interrupt sarcastically. "Your confidence in our ability to behave like rational adults is very much appreciated, Granger."

Hermione goes on as if I hadn't spoken. She does that a lot. It's very annoying. But admittedly effective.

"-but I had no idea you'd end up attempting to become friends. I really didn't see that coming."

"Well, Trelawny was clearly correct about your psychic abilities then." I quip. Belatedly I absorb what she actually just accused me of, and I sputter, "Potter and I are not trying to become friends, you lunatic! As I've already explained-"

Hermione waves a dismissive hand and says in an amused tone of voice,

"Yeah, yeah, you're doing it for the children. I heard you the first time. I know you and Harry aren't about to go out buying each other friendship bracelets any time soon."

Hermione looks far too pleased with herself for working me up into such a flustered state. I narrow my eyes at her,

"Are you mocking me right now Granger?"

"I'm always mocking you, Malfoy." Hermione says, smiling in the face of my darkened expression. "That's why we're friends."

I can't even argue with that because it's true. Well I suppose I could, technically, and if it were Potter sitting next to me then I probably would just for the sake of it. And because it'd be Potter. But I've found arguing with Hermione to be quite a fruitless endeavour in the past. She's so bloody clever and opinionated. Which isn't always a bad thing, of course. It does make trying to win a debate with her rather difficult however.

I sigh in exasperation and lean back on Hermione's cool blue sofa. It's admirably comfortable. Hermione's entire cottage is oddly comforting to look at actually. Everything in it is different shades of blue. Well everything apart from the floor and furniture, which are practically all white wood. Not a single Gryffindor colour in sight. Or a Slytherin colour for that matter.

It's almost as if Hermione's home is a clean slate that represents the friendship we've built over the last few months. I find myself oddly grateful for it. Perhaps Penny was correct that I've allowed myself to become isolated and lonely without even realising it. I could not drown in my grief over Jamie because my children needed me, but just keeping your head above water isn't really living.

I should know that by now. It was Jamie who taught me what living felt like in the first place. I know, deep down in my bones, that Jamie would hate to see me lonely and sad, even over her. Jamie had so much life inside her. She emanated it from every point of her being. When Jamie was alive I could absorb that aura of life into myself and pretend it belonged to me.

But now all that life is gone. It was taken away in an instant. And all I have left is what has always burned through my body and soul. My own life. Shredded and twisted and worn. I've forgotten how to use it.

Luna comes dancing, and I mean that literally, into the room like a very ungraceful ballerina. I used to find Luna's personality quite jarring, but I've gotten somewhat used to it by now. Luna gives Hermione and I one of her patented faraway smiles and lowers herself down onto the large sofa between us. She has a bottle of wine in her right hand and she puts it on Hermione's white wood coffee table.

In her other hand, Luna holds three glasses, and I help her to settle those on the table as well.

All four children and Penny are already in bed. Christmas eve is the only time of year I've ever been able to get Cissa and Leo to go to sleep early. They do this under the logic that the sooner they go to sleep, the faster it will be Christmas morning. Even if that doesn't work, threatening to call father Christmas usually does the trick. Well, not so much anymore now that they're older. The last time I tried it with Leo, the little shit laughed in my face. Then he patted my hand and said 'Sure Dad, whatever you say'.

My own son was humouring me about the existence of Santa clause. I was more than a little bit tempted to go out and buy coal just to see the look on Leo's face come Christmas morning. Penny informed me that I was being petty with a ten year old boy. A ten year old boy who is also my son. I was disappointed, but I took the coal out of our ASDA trolly anyway.

Jamie probably would have done it. Her practical jokes were always on the extreme side.

I wonder what Potter would have thought. Considering what he used to get up to when he was a boy, I can't imagine he'd reject such an idea. Potter himself is a study in extremes. You can't go around killing Dark Lords and not have people call you a madman at least once or twice. Or a hero. I think I'd prefer the former it were me. Not as much expectation that way. I would hate to fall off my pedestal and break my neck when I eventually hit reality.

"There are fireflies dancing around your head, Draco." Luna says to me. Or at me. She never quite looks at anyone properly. It's like she's constantly peering into the future and getting distracted by what she sees there. Knowing Luna as I do now, that may very well be the case.

"I upset him by talking about his special outing with Harry this Wednesday." Hermione says, a teasing smile on her face.

I glare at her with the power of a thousand bastard suns. Hermione doesn't seem at all affected. Bloody Gryffindor.

Luna's pale hair and eyes look almost ethereal in the light of a fire that burns hot within Hermione's white brick fireplace. All the other lights in the house are off. Hermione's living room opens out directly onto the beach. I can see the stars and the moon reflected in the ocean from here, through the large glass bay doors.

"Harry is the hurricane to your tornado." Luna says, as if laying down a long foretold prophecy. "Together you can create the perfect storm."

Oh yes, as if I need any more reason to think that Wednesday will be nothing but chaos right from the start.

"You need a drink." Hermione says, obviously clocking the look of panic on my face. She leans forward and fills our three glasses with Luna's wine. I take my glass from Hermione when she holds it out to me.

"Harry is not my anything." I say to Luna, even though I know it will do no good. If arguing with Hermione is difficult, then arguing with Luna is next to impossible. Mostly because half way through she'll go off on a random tangent about Nargles borrowing her mittens and hiding them, or something equally insane.

"Malfoy, just drink your wine, and calm down." Hermione advises calmly, before taking a sip of her own drink.

I shoot another glare at her and say,

"This is the second time you've tried to get me drunk, Granger. I'm starting to suspect you may have an ulterior motive."

Hermione rolls her eyes so hard that I'm afraid she may have hurt herself.

"Yes Draco." Hermione says drolly, "You've seen through my master plan to get you drunk and have my way with you. In fact, I've brought Luna here tonight in the hopes of tricking you both into having the most awkward threesome ever in the history of the world."

I choke on a mouthful of wine and sputter helplessly, much to Hermione's apparent satisfaction.

"Luna," I say when I finally have control over my mouth and throat again, "please protect me from Hermione. She's clearly lost her mind." I wrinkle my nose in thought. "Threesome." I scoff.

Luna doesn't appear at all bothered by any of this, and says,

"A sexual encounter including all three of us would indeed be most uncomfortable. Especially given my disinterest in having sex with any man."

I choke again, and this time Hermione joins me.

"What?" Hermione manages to force the question out of her mouth.

Luna simply shrugs one shoulder and crosses her legs on the sofa. Her smile is beatific.

"I have long since accepted that my desires lay with the female anatomy rather than the male." Luna explains.

After a long pause, within which Hermione and I exchange many varied looks of confusion, I say,

"So you're...gay?" I'm not sure how to ask that in a sensitive way, so I figured going for the direct approach would be best.

Luna seems to be oblivious to mine and Hermione's surprise, because she answers without any weight to the words,

"I suppose if one were to label physical desire in such a way, then yes."

"You never told me that, Luna." Hermione says, looking, for some reason, hurt by it.

"It wasn't relevant to any of our previous conversations." Luna replies, managing to sound not at all defensive.

When I was younger, I never gave much thought to sexuality, my own included. As a boy I knew that I would one day marry and have an heir to carry on the Malfoy name. After the war, when my life was turned upsidedown, I didn't care to think about love or sex in any capacity. Those thoughts felt too hopeful. And at the time I was a hopeless man.

Then I met Jamie and all of those hopes and half-dreams fell into place. She was my first in almost every way. There was never anyone else. Why would there be? Jamie was mine, and I was hers. We belonged to each other.

After Jamie died, my need for romantic desire and sex died with her. I didn't think about anyone else. I didn't ever want to.

Even now, I don't really know if I'm completely straight or not. I've heard people talk about all kinds of things. Different ways to be attracted to someone either physically or emotionally. There are so many things that you can be, and a lot of them have names now. I don't know what I am, or if it even matters. If I have a type, then I have no idea what it could be.

I wonder for a moment if Potter feels the same way I do. After all, he married his school sweet heart almost as soon as they both left Hogwarts. As far as I know he's not been with anyone else since his wife died either.

Luna and Hermione must have been talking without me paying attention, because I jump when Hermione reaches over to smack my arm.

"Hey, earth to Draco, did you hear what I just asked?"

I rub at my abused arm and grumble,

"Did you ask if I wanted to be violently assaulted? Because my answer would have been no."

Hermione scoffs at me.

"I barely even touched you, you big baby."

"We'll see about that when I wake up tomorrow and see a bruise on my arm." I mutter.

Hermione rolls her eyes again. She does that quite a lot around me. I'm starting to think she has some kind of medical condition that causes it.

"I asked if Harry mentioned that he'd be stopping by tomorrow so that I can give James, Albus and Lily their Christmas presents."

Now that gets my attention alright.

"What?" I demand, my stupid voice going all high and shrill like it does when I'm nervous.

Hermione arches an eyebrow at me contemplatively and says,

"Yeah, he floo'd me this morning before Ron's, uh, wedding." Hermione cringes on the last word.

Even after over three years, it's still a bit weird for Hermione to talk about Weasley moving on with someone else. Personally I think she's lucky to have escaped the tosser, but I never liked Weasley to begin with. The fact that he let Hermione go is just further proof to me of how much of an idiot he is. I may not have thought that in the past, but after getting to know Hermione on a personal level, I believe it whole-heartedly.

"Potter is coming here. Tomorrow. On Christmas day." I ask for confirmation.

Hermione must note my distress, but she answers casually enough.

"Yeah. He won't stay long though."

That is not comforting at all. Any time spent with Potter is too much time in my book. I never should have agreed to see him on Wednesday.

Luna places a comforting hand on my arm, or at least I think it's supposed to be comforting. It's hard to tell with Luna sometimes. She looks at me with surprising seriousness and intones,

"Lightning bolts collide with falling stars and burn the sky to cinders."

Well that isn't fucking ominous at all.

...

English weather is one long running joke.

Despite the fact that it's December, and Christmas day to boot, the sky is clear blue and the sun is stubbornly shining. Any minute now grey clouds could appear and it might piss down with rain, or hail, or even snow. And the sodding sun would still be there, giving us all the finger. 'Fuck you all, and your stupid holiday, I'm staying'.

On the plus side, it means my children and Luna's are distracted by playing on the beach and in the sea; which gives me, Hermione, Penny, and Luna some time to relax.

Despite our warnings, the children woke up almost comically early. I tried to convince Cissa and Leo to go back to bed, but they refused. When they were very young, it was Jamie who always woke up first on Christmas day. She would make toast and then cut the pieces up into the shape of things like snowmen and reindeer. Jamie would cook bacon and eggs too, the smell of which would wake up everyone else in the flat. Penny, the kids, and I would all slowly drift into the kitchen to eat Christmas breakfast together.

It was Penny who always cooked Christmas dinner though. She'd let me and Jamie help, but the kitchen was Penny's domain and we all respected that. Even today, Penny somehow managed to take over Hermione's kitchen and cooked us a massive feast that would have been more suited to feed an entire army. Hermione is going to have left overs in her fridge all the way until next Christmas.

Everyone else is outside on the beach when Potter arrives. I only came in to grab a few cans of coke for the adults currently lounging on the sand, whilst watching four children run around screaming and splashing each other with sea water. It's mid-afternoon now. We've already had dinner and completed the manic present opening part of Christmas day. Leo and Cissa both seem happy with their presents. Leo is especially happy about his new laptop. Figures my son would fall in love with technology even though I hate the damn stuff.

But Cissa was also very excited about her new broomstick. A Starfall 7000. Since Xavier also got a new broom, Hermione has said they can put up some disillusion wards so that Cissa and Xavier can fly around for a bit without any muggles seeing them on their brooms.

Both James and Albus come stumbling through the fire place one after the other. James manages the transition from floo to solid ground with ease. Albus, however, somehow stumbles over his own feet. Luckily for him I am walking past the fireplace at that exact moment, and so I am able to catch hold of Albus to stop him from faceplanting the floor. Albus grabs hold me like I'm his last lifeline. His extra weight on me almost causes both of us to fall over.

"Sorry." Albus murmurs quietly to me.

I right myself and Albus, and then pull back a bit so I can look at him properly. I'm almost taken aback when I see his face. For a single terrifying moment, I feel as if I've been thrown back in time twenty-four years; because standing in front of me is an almost exact replica of an eleven year old Harry Potter. There could be absolutely no doubt as to who fathered this boy. With his brilliant green eyes, impossibly messy dark hair, and resolutely stubborn expression, Albus Potter is his father's son through and through.

I flicker a glance over at James. He's bouncing on the spot like an overly excited gerbil. James still looks like Potter. In fact he looks exactly like a combination of Potter and Weasley DNA. Which is what he is, technically. Red hair, freckles, pale skin, all of it pure Weasley. But he has Potter's face, and that fierceness in his gaze that I've never seen in anyone other than Potter.

"Are you both alright?" I ask, concerned that they appear to be alone. "Where's your father?"

"Dad's apparating over with our sister. He had to talk to Uncle Ron about something first so he sent us over." James tells me, still bouncing like he has too much energy in his body and has to constantly move around to expel it all so that he won't explode.

Leo can get like that sometimes, although he usually has to eat a lot of sweets first. Cissa is my more energetic child, and I swear she'll be an incredible Qudditch player one day. She loves playing sports and always dominates sports day at school. Cissa goes to three clubs during the week for swimming, hockey and netball. Honestly I think she'll go mental at Hogwarts without having Qudditch as a physical outlet. I'm hoping they'll bend the no first years allowed rule for her.

I kneel down in front of an almost worryingly quiet Albus and ask him,

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" I check him over, not seeing any obvious injuries from his run in with the floo.

Albus shyly shakes his head, green eyes downcast, and biting his lower lip nervously. I realise that I'm making him feel uncomfortable. After all these years working at a primary school, I've learnt to notice what a child is feeling, and take note of their reactions to certain things. That knowledge can come in very handy when I'm dealing with them, or their parents, later on.

I hate parents evening. I hate all parents. Seriously, if you're a parent, then I hate you. And the high horse you rode in on. Parents are a pain in my arse. Teachers everywhere can attest to how much of a nightmare they can be.

"James, you can head outside if you want. Leo's out there with Kassian." I say to James.

"Thanks Mr Malfoy." James says, before he dashes off outside in search of his mates.

I'm hoping that with James gone, Albus will feel less nervous about talking to me.

"Albus, do you want to go outside?" I ask him.

Albus seems to consider this for a matter of seconds before shaking his head. He doesn't speak.

I try my best not to frown, and instead force a gentle smile onto my face.

"Ok. How about a Christmas biscuit? We have some in the kitchen." I say, gesturing towards Hermione's now Christmas infested kitchen.

This time I get a bit more interest from Albus. He actually looks at me for a start instead of at his shoes. I take that as a good sign and stand up, already moving towards the kitchen, hoping that Albus will follow. He does, after a brief moment of hesitation and an unsure look at the fireplace. A small frown creases his face, and a bad feeling twinges inside my chest.

Hermione's kitchen is rather large and open planned, much like the rest of the house. It has granite work tops, a fancy oven, and a big island smack dab in the middle of it. The strange thing is that I don't think Hermione does much cooking. She says she works too much to ever get a lot of use out of it. I think Penny would move into Hermione's house just to have access to this kitchen.

I get out the tin of pre-made Christmas biscuits. We baked them yesterday, and the kids iced them once they'd cooled.

I sit up on one of the kitchen stools, and pull another one out for Albus. Albus eyes the offered stool warily, as if it may bite him at any moment. I force myself not to snap impatiently, or laugh. Albus just looks so much like Potter that it's very close to being genuinely disconcerting.

I wait until Albus finally decides to trust the stool of unbidden doom. He climbs up onto it and sits beside me. I open up the biscuit tin and we both take out a biscuit each. Mine is in the shape of a Santa hat. Albus has one shaped like an angel. We sit together in silence and munch on our biscuits. I'd like to say that the silence between us is uncomfortable, but for some unknown reason, it isn't really.

To my, likely everlasting, surprise, it's Albus who speaks first.

"Dad and Uncle Ron were yelling. I heard them before I left."

Oh fuck me, no. Bloody hell, _no_. This is not my business at all. Damn Potter for sending his children over here and ruining my perfectly acceptable calm frame of mind.

Albus is staring down at his half eaten biscuit. It looks like he's been nawing on it. Poor angel has no head and only one wing.

I clear my throat, mostly trying to buy myself more time to think of an acceptable response. I think about what I would say to my own children.

"Adults yell sometimes, Albus. It's nothing for you to worry about."

Albus frowns again at this. His tone is a bit more firm this time when he says,

"Dad was upset because Auntie Katie and Auntie Fleur tried to set Dad up with someone at Uncle Ron's wedding."

Ok, now this is really, _really_ , not my business.

How did I get here? What have I ever done in my life to deserve this?

Well, apart from the Death eater thing, I mean.

"I know your Dad well enough to be sure that he won't ever do something unless he wants to." I say to Albus.

Albus smiles tentatively up at me, which I count as a small victory.

"You really think so?" Albus asks eagerly.

I nod empathetically and say,

"Your Dad is the most stubborn man I've ever met." Maybe the bravest too, not that I'll ever be telling Potter that for as long as I live. "I think he can do just about anything." I add more quietly, which is another thing I'll never be saying to Potter this side of the grave.

Albus smiles a bit wider at me, showing teeth this time. I even see evidence of some dimples. I find myself smiling back at him.

Just then I hear the crack of apparation and Potter appears in the middle of the living room. He's holding a small dark haired girl in his arms. I presume her to be Lily, Potter's youngest child. She's the only one I haven't seen pictures of before today. Hermione has pictures of James and Albus dotted around all over the house.

Potter looks, in a word, angry. I'd go as far to say 'pissed the fuck off'.

I feel a sudden wave of protectiveness towards Albus, which is insane. Albus is Potter's son, not mine. Even so, I feel myself edge closer to the little boy. Albus surprises me again by reciprocating my actions by moving closer to me as well. He grabs hold of my sleeve and holds on tight.

I hold up the biscuit tin to Potter and shake it around a bit.

"Biscuit, Pot-er-Harry?"

Potter's green fire eyes blaze with rightious anger. It makes my chest tighten and my skin burn in his presence, especially when he shifts his gaze to settle on me completely.

"Biscuit!" Little Lily Potter enthuses. She leans forward in Potter's arms and makes 'gimmie gimmie' hand gestures towards the biscuit tin.

Potter's anger dampens somewhat. Or at least I think it does. Some of the fire goes out of his expression at least, for which I am grateful. Potter seems to finally take note of his son clinging to me, whilst still holding onto his now soggy biscuit.

Potter sighs heavily and makes his way towards us.

"Go on then Mal-um-er-Draco...hand over the biscuits."

Potter smirks at me knowingly.

Forget about stars and lightning bolts, I imagine showing Potter what it's like when a face collides with the bottom of a biscuit tin.


	5. You're more to me than all these broken things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broken down refrigerators, leaky faucets  
> All that masking tape is gone to waste  
> Ceiling tiles are missing, stains adorn the carpet  
> Some things aren't meant to be replaced  
> Some things aren't meant to be replaced  
> Light bulbs in your head, they might be burnt out  
> Maybe rough around the edges, you barely function  
> You're too tired, you can't carry all this hurt now  
> You're more to me than all these broken things  
> These broken things  
> Why, why  
> Can't I put you back together? (put you back together)  
> Drawing faces in the dust covered windows (windows)  
> Try to make this winter feel like spring (feel like spring)  
> We could ride our bicycles until sundown (until sundown)  
> Then stay up late to watch the blue moon sing  
> Light bulbs in your head, they might be burnt out  
> Maybe rough around the edges, you barely function  
> You're too tired, you can't carry all this hurt now  
> You're more to me than all these broken things  
> These broken things
> 
> Broken Things By Clairity

If Luna Lovegood were ever transfigured into a Christmas tree, then I know exactly what it would look like. Since Hermione works so much, she didn't have any time to decorate her house for the holidays. Luna took it upon herself to bring over her own Christmas tree. If it can actually be called that rather than the physical representation of insanity that it clearly is.

Luna's tree is orange. Fucking, orange. I didn't even know you could get them in that colour. Unless Luna found a spell that could change the colour of a Christmas tree. I've never heard of such a spell myself, but I suppose it could potentially exist. If it does then it's probably an American spell. American witches and wizards are weird like that.

In addition to the strange colour, Luna's tree ornaments and decorations are somehow even more odd. Instead of baubles and tinsel and lights, there are tiny fireflies that hover like miniature lamps on the edge of each branch. Baubles have been replaced by random household-ish items such as toothbrushes, keys, small toys, pens/pencils, and at the very top, instead of a star or angel, there is a stuffed panda teddy. In place of tinsel there are sparkly scarves wrapped around the tree.

Cissa and Xavier loved it. Hermione just smiled in bemusement when she saw the weirdest bloody Christmas tree in existence sitting in her living room. Then she thanked Luna for bringing it over. I'm guessing she wasn't in the mood to put up a fight about it. I thought about protesting myself, but it was neither my tree nor my house, so I decided to just let it go.

I think about all of this whilst focusing my attention on the tree so that I don't have to look at Potter. I can see the tree from my place on Hermione's kitchen stool. It's not that Potter is openly staring at me or anything. Potter _is_ weird, but he's not _that_ weird. He does, however, keep darting glances over at me every few seconds.

Surprisingly, no one from outside has come in yet. I thought James' arrival would have caused Hermione to come inside to greet Potter, but apparently not. Unless James told Hermione that his father hadn't arrived yet. In which case Hermione could be waiting for all of us to go out onto the beach once Potter apparated in.

Albus is chewing on his soggy biscuit. He looks more content and happy now that his father is in the room. That is somewhat mollifying. Potter smiles brightly at his second born son, and reaches over to ruffle his already tragically messy hair. Albus smiles back at his Dad, previous worries seemingly forgotten.

Lily Potter now has her own biscuit and is jovially nibbling and drooling all over it. I notice that she needs a tissue for her nose and get up to retrieve one. There aren't any tissues so I tear off a paper towel to use instead. Potter raises an eyebrow at me when I move towards him with a paper towel in my hand.

I roll my eyes at him and say,

"It isn't for you, Potter. I'm hardly going to smother you with a paper towel, so don't panic. Put those Auror instincts on the back burner for a minute and let me wipe your daughter's nose." Before she gets snot on your t-shirt.

Potter isn't dressed in his Auror robes. He wasn't when he came to drop off Leo either. He's wearing muggle clothes today; dark well worn jeans with more than a few small rips and holes, a fitted white t-shirt, and what look like motorcycle boots. I dearly hope that Potter doesn't actually have a motorcycle. I would fear for all pedestrians unlucky enough to get in his way. Potter couldn't possibly be trusted to keep to the road.

"I didn't think you were going to smother me with it." Potter says in amusement. "I figured you'd ball it up and throw it at my eye if anything."

"Yes, well, not all of my decisions revolve around injuring you, as tempting as that thought may be." I muse.

Potter laughs at that, and he shifts Lily around so that I can reach her properly. Lily eyes me like I'm some new species of adult who might be about to take away her precious (biscuit). Lily tightens her hold on the half eaten snowman and watches me warily. I lift up the makeshift tissue and say,

"Don't look at me like that, little miss. I promise not to steal your treat." Lily relaxes a bit at that. Her eyes widen again though when I wrap the folded paper towel around her nose. I bite down on a smile and instruct her to, "Blow please." Just like I did with my own children when they were her age.

Lily gives me a look that is one hundred percent Potter. It's a look that clearly states what she thinks of being told what to do. I wonder for a moment if she'll refuse just because, but Potter saves the day (as he is apt to do) by saying in a coaxing voice,

"Go on, Lils, blow into the tissue. Like a trumpet." Potter blows out through his nose and makes what I think is supposed to be a trumpet sound with his mouth.

Lily giggles at this, which makes it a bit difficult to keep hold of her nose. But Lily does as she's told and blows hard into the paper towel. I pull it away afterwards and use the non-snotfilled side to wipe off the rest from her face.

I go to throw the paper towel in the bin. Potter tells me,

"Lily's had a cold since last week. St. Mungos gave me some medicine for her, but she hates it. I can't say I blame her, it smells foul."

"Most things that are good for you smell and taste horrid." I say, coming back to sit next to Albus again. Albus is watching Potter and I with bright, almost worryingly intelligent, eyes. His soggy biscuit is still soggy and now three quarters of the way gone. My own biscuit is on the countertop with only a few bites taken out of it.

"Have you tried Calpol?" I ask Potter. "That can help, and it's quite sweet tasting. When he was younger Leo used to pretend to be ill just so he could have a spoonful of it ."

Potter arches an eyebrow at me, looking thoroughly amused again. His earlier anger seems to have melted away. Either that or Potter's gotten better at hiding his emotions.

No, nope, nah, I refuse to believe that. Potter is bad enough without the ability to feel more than one thing at a time. Potter is a blunt, hot-headed, tactless Gryffindor, and that's the way he should always be. The last thing the world needs is a Potter who can lie.

"Draco Malfoy, are you actually praising the use of muggle medicine over magic?" Potter teases, a glint of challenge in his eye. I don't think Potter can talk to me without making it a challenge of some sort. I know I can't talk to him without doing the same thing.

I go right for the kill shot, because evidence of my father's training is still sometimes automatic.

"I am a muggle now, remember, Potter. Certain members of your rather large fanclub saw to that." I say plainly, without any edge attached to it. I wouldn't behave cruelly towards Potter, not in front of his children.

It's unfair, and frankly untrue, to blame Potter for my misfortune. He did speak at my trial. He tried to help me, even though I could tell he didn't really want to. But so many Death eaters died during the war, especially near the end. There were so few people left to punish, and the public wanted blood. So the Ministry gave them mine. I could see the strategy behind it. The Ministry wanted to look strong, after all that had happened, after all the ways in which they had been brought to their knees by one unnameable madman.

I could name him. I could name them fucking _all_. And so could Potter.

Maybe I hated him in that moment. More than I ever had before. When he stood on the stand and tried to defend me. Maybe I hated him. I don't really remember what I felt in those days. I spend most of my life trying to pretend those days never existed; that the person I was before I met Jamie never existed.

I like to think that meeting Jamie changed me into someone new. Someone better, even. Not that the bar was all that high to begin with.

The Ministry used my harsh punishment to show everyone that even a teenage boy who made a series of mistakes would not be pardoned due to his age or inexperience. The Ministry told the world that I was tried as a man, as a dangerous criminal. But in truth, I was tried as a symbol, as a figurehead for the Death eaters.

I found that almost painfully funny at the time. Considering how terrible a Death eater I had been. My mother knew it, that's why she made the deal with Snape. Voldemort knew it, that's why he liked to watch me torment people, because he could see that I loathed every part of it. Dumbledore knew it too. That's why he tried to offer me a way out. And I didn't take it because the only thing I was worse at than being a Death eater was being someone worthy of Dumbledore's help.

I wasn't a Harry Potter or a Severus Snape. I wasn't a natural born hero who was destined to save the world, or a brave man strong enough to fight and suffer for his chance at redemption. I was Draco bloody Malfoy. A disappointment to myself and everyone else for an endless number of reasons that didn't begin and end with the war.

Potter's eyes go dark for a second, and I think only the presence of his children stop him from saying what he actually feels like saying. Or shouting. Instead he takes a deep breathe and looks right at me. Our eyes lock once again.

"I remember, Malfoy. I remember all of it. " Potter intones, his voice rough with something I can't name. I don't think I want to either. If I do then it might make me feel like an arsehole for sniping at him. I don't want to feel bad for hurting Potter. There are some things that just shouldn't be felt.

I sigh heavily and murmur,

"I know you do." He might be the only other person who remembers everything exactly how it was back then.

Potter looks like he wants to deepen our conversation, to make it more than it already is. But, again, the eyes of his children keep him quiet.

I think that's for the best. Now I just have to make sure I'm never alone with him again, and I won't have to worry about having some sort of serious discussion.

"So, Albus, what did you get for Christmas?" I ask with forced brightness, focusing my attention towards someone other than Potter.

Albus looks up at me with knowing emerald eyes, and he quirks one of his eyebrows. How does a nine year old know how to give someone a 'you're full of shit' stare? What has Potter been teaching this child? Or maybe he gets it from Hermione. Yeah, I can see that happening. Hermione is a master of the 'you're full of shit' stare and the 'oh _really_ , _that's_ what you're going with?' eyebrow quirk. I don't know how Potter has put up with it since he was eleven.

I just keep smiling, possibly a bit dementedly, until Albus decides to take pity on me.

"Daddy got me a new Potions set and a broom and loads of books that I asked for." Albus tells me. His voice is quiet, but confident. He watches me thoughtfully. I'm being examined by a nine year old Potter. I feel like I had a nightmare about this exact scenario once.

"You like Potions?" I ask him, genuinely curious this time. Potter was always terrible at Potions. It would be of highest irony if his mini-me actually ended up taking to the subject.

Albus nods, a small smile forming on his face.

"Yep, a lot of potions are like really complex puzzles. Working them out is fun."

I can't stop myself from grinning. I used to feel the exact same way when I was in school. Or at least during my early years I did. Professor Snape would be laughing from the grave if he could hear this. Or he might just call us all dunderheads and glare a whole lot. There have been times in my life since the war when I've desperately wished that Severus Snape had not died. He would have been the only one I could talk to about sacrifice and redemption. My own and his.

"I always enjoyed Potions when I was younger." I tell Albus. "I made more than a few things explode though." By accident of course.

Well, mostly by accident then.

Albus laughs at this. His laugh isn't boisterous in the slightest, more of a subdued chuckle really, but it's still something. From what I've observed so far, Potter was definitely correct in calling Albus the quiet one of his three children.

I glance over at Potter and almost jerk backwards when I see the expression on his face. His mouth is only a few inches away from gaping. Potter's eyes flicker dramatically between myself and his son. He looks shocked and bewildered, and I have no idea why.

I'm prevented from asking however by Hermione, who finally comes striding into the kitchen. Harry's attention is dragged away from me when Hermione says Potter's name delightedly and goes over to hug him. She kisses Albus on the forehead and he smiles tentatively up at her. He seems to have crept back into his turtle shell though.

I would never have thought that Potter could raise a shy child. During the brief times when I've thought about Potter and his potential family over the years, I always imagined him with a brood of loud, mischievous, children, much like his beloved Weasley's.

Perhaps it's something to do with Ginny Weasley's death. Albus would have been about six when she died. Leo was also only six when we lost Jamie. That's a very rough age to lose your mother. Well, every age is a rough age to lose a parent, but especially so when you're too young to fully understand the loss.

Cissa was only four when Jamie died. I used to worry that Cissa wouldn't remember her mother. I worried that Jamie would just be a vague outlined image for Cissa and that she would never know just how special her mother was or how much Jamie had loved her. When I voiced my concerns to Penny, she suggested that I tell Cissa stories about Jamie and show her pictures and old videos of her.

I did as Penny advised. Even though it hurt to remember. But I would rather feel the pain of remembering how much I loved my wife rather than the numbness of forgetting. And I think it helped Cissa, and Leo too, to talk about their mother with me. I don't ever want Leo or Cissa to feel like they can't tell me things.

"So, what have you lot been up to in here?" Hermione asks with a curiously raised eyebrow. She looks pointedly at the half eaten biscuit still being held in a death grip by Lily, and adds, "Apart from nicking my Christmas biscuits, I mean."

"Nothing." Both Potter and I say at the same time. I groan internally. Because that didn't sound suspicious _at all_. Potter looks at me. I studiously avoid his gaze. Maybe if I pretend he doesn't exist then he will eventually just disappear in a puff of smoke.

I can't believe I was stupid enough to agree to spending an entire day with the bastard. I must have been high on tea fumes or something.

Hermione appears far too amused by mine and Potter's reaction to her question. But instead of being evil and purposely pushing the issue, she instead says,

"Alright, how about we open some presents?"

Albus looks up a bit at that with interest. Lily goes crazy on Potter's hip and starts chanting 'Presents!' As if his ears were burning, James comes running inside with Kassian and Leo following close behind. A few seconds later Penny comes striding in with Luna, Xavier and Cissa trailing her like loyal ducklings.

Cissa runs up to me and climbs into my lap. She's wet and sandy, but I hold her close anyway. I kiss the top of her head and she chatters on to me about a crab she found and how Xavier screamed when she put it on his shoulder.

Hermione takes Lily away from Potter and takes her away in search of presents. James runs after them, talking a mile a minute, trying to get Hermione to tell him what she got him for Christmas. Albus climbs off of his stool and follows his excitable brother. He looks back at his Dad once, and Potter gives his son an encouraging smile. Then Albus looks at me. I smile and salute him. Albus copies my action and walks off after his siblings.

I catch Potter's gaze again. He's watching me with a thoughtful expression. Something in my chest tightens. It hurts. And it takes me a moment to realise why.

I feel _seen_.

"Are we still ok for Wednesday?" Potter asks me, green eyes intense and hard.

No. No we are not ok for Wednesday. No. Not at all.

"Yes." I say. Because I'm a constant disappointment to myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading! xxx


	6. Gonna take this chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now it's time to face the unknown  
> My arms are open wide  
> It took a lot of hard rain to grow  
> This kind of strength inside
> 
> To open up a cage and set me free  
> I'm becoming who I'm meant to be  
> Taller than the tallest of all the trees  
> I'm gon' be alright
> 
> I'm tired of trying to take control  
> Finally wanting and letting go  
> All of a sudden I see it clear  
> What to do
> 
> I'm gonna take this chance and do something I never tried  
> I'm gonna make this moment matter till the end of time  
> And I made mistakes through all my life  
> And on the same place everytime  
> I'm gonna take this chance and do something I never tried
> 
> Take This Chance By Anastacia

Well this is going about as badly as I suspected it would. Walking around an Aquarium with Potter is not an experience I ever expected to have to endure in my life. Especially not with all of our children skipping along ahead of us and seemingly getting on like they've known each other forever. James and Leo isn't a surprise obviously, as they are self-declared best friends. But Cissa and Albus, despite their very different personalities, glomped onto one another almost immediately. I can see them now, whispering and laughing together over by a large tank of baby tiger sharks. They're bloody holding hands and everything!

I'm not sure how horrified I should be if Albus and Cissa decide to become best friends as well. Then I'll have no choice but to associate with Potter for the sake of _both_ my children. If I were a little less sane and a bit more pessimistic then I would call the universe out on its obvious attempt to drive me round the twist.

Then again, nothing has exploded since we got to the Aquarium and Potter has yet to piss me off to the point where I might start to think that punching him in front of all of our children would be worth it. So.

It is awkward though. In a way that it wasn't before when I saw Potter at Hermione's house or when he dropped Leo off last week. I can't tell if it's because this time we've actually chosen to socialise with one another outside of a mandated setting. I'm still struggling to reconcile why I agreed to do this with Potter in the first place to be honest.

Or maybe now that Potter and I are alone together (sort of, if you don't count our own children and the groups of strangers who are also running around all over the Aquarium) we've realised that we don't have anything to talk about. Not really anyway. Chatting about the weather or what a nice Christmas we had or any other inane topic of conversation feels wrong. Potter and I have said many awful things to each other, but we've never chit chatted about nonsense for no good reason.

I would rather get into a fistfight with Potter than politely pretend to care about how cloudy it is today compared to yesterday when it was still cloudy but not quite as much. That's why I don't have many muggle friends. Because every time I've tried to become closer to the teachers I work with at school or the parents of other children, which are the only two types of people I have time to meet, I can't stand the tedium of it all.

It's not just that I can't tell them about my past, I would have no interest in doing that anyway, but I realised soon after meeting Jamie that my social skills are not good. Like at all. So much of who I was and how I acted in school came from being a Malfoy and a Slytherin and hating that tosser Potter, that I never really developed a personality outside of all that. I was _Draco Malfoy_. Always. Never just Draco. At least not since I was eleven years old.

It wasn't my parent's fault, although I tried to blame them, specifically my father, for a long time after the war. I chose to be a bully who took advantage of my wealth and social power as the Slytherin prince, and truthfully I don't even really regret it all that much. I was who I was, and I did what I did when I did it. Regretting my actions during the war, and the cruel way I treated other people sometimes makes sense to me, but that's as far as it goes.

I still wouldn't have wanted to be a Gryffindor, and I still wouldn't have acted like one for the sake of being friends with Harry bloody Potter. I'm sure Potter feels the same way, despite how things turned out, he wouldn't have wanted to be anyone else. And neither would I.

After the war, however, when there was no more wealth to flaunt or Slytherin politics to play or a Potter to torment, or even a Dark Lord to survive, I was at a loss. I didn't know how to be anyone other than the person my parents and my circumstances had demanded I become.

I couldn't be _Draco Malfoy_ anymore. Because _Draco Malfoy_ was a wizard. Just Draco is not. I am not. And without that, without family and money and _magic_ , I thought I was nothing. How _could_ I be anything when all that I was had been destroyed so thoroughly? There were some days, after my trial and before I met Jamie, when I couldn't decide who I hated more, Voldemort or the Ministry of magic. Or Potter. Because hating Potter felt easier than breathing back then. It was a part of me. An ugly part that I'm still trying to chisel away even now.

But that isn't the reason why things are weird between me and Potter now. Because yeah, 'weird' is a better word for describing the tension between us than just plain awkwardness.

Potter arrived at the café right on time today, which I hadn't expected. I vaguely remember from our school days that he was rarely on time for anything. Although perhaps his stint as an Auror has changed that. I don't know much about the training process for Aurors, nor do I particularly care to, but I imagine they might have created a timekeeping 101 class just for Potter's benefit.

I spent the whole morning before Potter showed up pacing around the café and the flat muttering about how this whole idea is stupid and that I'd probably somehow end up on the front page of the Prophet with a picture of me attacking Potter. Then the entire wizarding world would demand that I be sentenced to a million years in Azkaban and I'd be sharing a cell with my father. We could trade notes on how to make awful fucking life choices.

Penny got annoyed with me eventually and smacked the back of my head with a wooden spoon. She demanded that I stop being such a ' _sodding drama queen'_.

Penny accuses me of being a drama queen all the time. Leo broke his arm once when he was eight after falling out of the tree he had been attempting to climb, and I almost had a heart attack. I drove our car, which I make every effort to avoid doing because I _hate_ driving, like a mad man to the children's hospital. I drove so fast that I had to keep telling Leo not to be scared and that I was just driving like a maniac so that I could save his life.

Leo was not traumatised by my driving at all. He just kept laughing and shouting 'whheeeee'. Later I realised that my son had grasped the use of sarcasm. I know this because on our way home from the hospital he informed me that twenty miles per hour is not what most people would consider 'fast'. I called him a little shit. He just grinned back at me and asked if he could take some pens into school so that all his friends could sign the new lime green cast on his arm.

What I'm trying to say is that Penny is completely right. I am a drama queen. That's one thing I definitely learned about who I am deep down inside. I stress myself out to the point of hysterics, and I can't seem to stop losing my shit until someone knocks me off my downward spiral. Jamie used to do that. She would mock me, or say something funny, or quite literally whack me upside the head, and it would take away the panic. At very least Jamie would share in my panic and we could go crazy about things together.

But since Jamie died I haven't had anyone who could distract me from my tendency to overreact. Penny tries, but it's not really the same. I miss Jamie for an endless amount of reasons, and one of them is her ability to bring me back down to earth with just a few words, or a quirk of her lips that could easily turn into a devastatingly wicked smirk.

Potter interrupts my introspection, because of course he does, not like anyone would have taught him how rude it is to bother someone when they're trying to talk to themselves in peace.

"So...you're...uh...a teacher?" Potter says, making it sound like only half a question. He grimaces a little, obviously regretting his decision to try and make this any less weird than it already is.

I decide to take pity on him, for reasons I don't care to examine too closely.

"Yes." I say, "I teach a class full of six year olds how to spell and I help them make hand paint collages and I instruct them when it is appropriate to pee your knickers in public."

Potter cracks a small smile, the first one he's had on his face all day.

"When is it appropriate to pee your knickers in public Mr Malfoy, sir?" Potter asks in a mock child-like voice.

I give him a dry stare and say,

"Never." I tilt my head to the side in consideration and add, "Unless you're faced with an evil horse-chicken who's clear intent is to destroy you and everything you love. Only then is it ok to pee yourself."

Potter snorts, but he looks more amused than anything else.

"That was your own fault." Potter says. "If you're gonna go around insulting hippogriffs then you'll get what you deserve. A swift kick to the arm, for example."

"Bloody chicken was aiming for my _face_." I mutter darkly.

Potter laughs. He _laughs_.

A feeling of helplessness rises up inside of me from nowhere and for a moment I flounder. I should be used to that by now, but I'm not, and it scares me a bit.

Why Potter laughing would incite such an emotional response, I have no idea. The only thing I can compare the experience to is how I felt when I first met Jamie. I was in such a dark place back then, and seeing Jamie smile or hearing her laugh at something I'd said made me feel worse rather than better. In the beginning I mean. I didn't really understand why I felt afraid of making someone happy, and I still don't now.

Jamie and I only spoke about it once, the night we slept together for the first time. I'd been nervous as fuck, my hands shaking as I touched her like she was made of glass. Jamie only put up with that for so long before asking me what was wrong. I couldn't explain it to her at first, but she was very patient with me. She waited until I finally said that I was scared of disappointing her. Jamie, far from getting annoyed, confided that she felt the same way. It helped, knowing that. I told Jamie that she could never disappoint me. All I wanted was her, in whatever way she'd let me have her.

Hours later that night, Jamie asked me why I always seemed so afraid of letting her down. I couldn't tell her about the war or Voldemort, so I told her about my parents instead. Not the details of course, just about how I couldn't save my mother, and that I wasn't the man my father wanted me to be.

Jamie told me I was the only man she'd ever wanted. And on our wedding day she told me I was the only man she would ever want.

Hearing those words from Jamie's lips didn't heal the wounds left by my parents' disappointment, but it soothed them. It made those wounds bearable.

Potter has stopped laughing now and his expression has morphed into something verging on concerned.

"Malfoy, are you-"

"Don't ask me if I'm alright." I snap at him tiredly. I can feel a migraine coming on already and it isn't even twelve o' clock.

"What?" Potter asks, bewildered by my response, those eyes of his searching my face for answers.

"I hate it when people ask me if I'm alright." I say, reaching a hand up to pinch my forehead, trying to stave off the migraine. "I know how that sounds, but after Jamie...died...people wouldn't stop asking me if I was alright and all I wanted to do was scream at them _'no, no, I'm not fucking alright, I'll never be alright because she's dead, so stop fucking asking_ '. But I couldn't do that because of Leo and Cissa, so I had to pretend like I wasn't cracking and splintering into a thousand useless pieces."

I'll regret that outburst later, but right now I'm too frustrated to keep myself in check.

I reluctantly look over at Potter, expecting shock, or anger, maybe even annoyance at dragging him into my own internal drama. What I do not expect is the level of gritty understanding on Potter's face. We lock eyes and Potter watches me, unflinching.

After a long, very heavy, pause, Potter says resignedly,

"It never gets any easier." He sighs. "No matter how many people you've lost. It hits you with the same strength every single bloody time."

"Potter-" I try to say something, anything, to stop Potter from sharing with me what I haven't in any way earned from him, but he keeps going, undaunted. Well, I suppose it is _Potter_ , after all.

"I thought my days of losing people I love was over. After the war. After...everything that happened back then." Potter says to me, eyes fixed on my face like he wants me to really _listen_. I do. Even though a large part of me doesn't want to hear it. He goes on. "I lost people like most kids lose teeth. But when Ginny and I got married and we had James and I became an Auror, I felt like everything had come together. I was exactly who I wanted to be, and I had everything I'd ever wanted. I had everything that Voldemort tried to take from me. Then we had Albus. And Lily. And I lost someone. Again. Not just someone, but _the_ one. My wife, the love of my life. It felt like a cruel joke at the time. It still does some days."

This is not what I expected when we started talking. It isn't awkward anymore between us. Which is fucking odd within itself. How is it possible to be more comfortable bearing your inner pain and soul to someone than it is to talk politely with them about the weather?

I have something terribly wrong with me. Whatever that thing is, Potter has it wrong with him as well. I take comfort in that.

It doesn't make me feel better exactly to know that Potter understands my sense of loss. Nothing could ever really make me feel _better_ about any of it _._ But it does...help? Maybe. Or at least it means something to me that there's another person in my life who knows what it feels like to fight so hard and yet still lose.

"Well that escalated rather quickly." I say dryly to Potter after another one of those heavy pauses we seem to like so much.

Potter lets out a somewhat strangled laugh, which causes me to smile just a bit. There's nothing inherently funny about any of this, but it feels good to make jokes at our expense for some reason.

"Yeah, it really did." Potter says, shaking his head, having finally torn his gaze away from mine. I feel myself sag in both disappointment and relief. Potter frowns slightly and adds, "We are not good at small talk."

"No." I say in agreement. "We're actually very shite at it, apparently. When it comes to talking to _each other_ , anyway."

"Ah, well, I think I can live with that." Potter says, a rueful smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"I suppose we don't have much of a choice." I say, shrugging one shoulder.

"No _p_ e." Potter says, putting unnecessary emphasis on the 'p'. Because Potter is, and always will be, a menace to society.

I run a hand through my hair and groan. I make a face at Potter and say,

"Quick, tell me something weird or emotional so we won't lapse back into awkward silence. I cannot take another hour of pretending to be happily uncomfortable in your presence, Potter."

"What would you being unhappily uncomfortable in my presence look like?" Potter asks curiously, sounding amused despite himself.

I sniff at him mock thoughtfully and say,

"A lot like this really, except I'd be continuously hitting you with something as we walk around. Something heavy. Like a rock."

"Ahha, that sounds about right." Potter says, nodding to himself. He arches a speculative eyebrow at me and mutters, " _Now_ look who has the anger problem."

"I wouldn't be hitting you out of anger. I would be hitting you out of boredom." I argue drolly. "And are you really still stuck on that thing I said about your temper? That cannot be the first time someone has pointed it out to you, Potter. I refuse to believe _all_ of the people in your life are _that_ unobservant."

"No, you aren't the only one who's mentioned it." Potter admits begrudgingly. "Hermione's brought it up before. Some of my Auror trainers tried to discuss my more...passionate behaviour. Even Ron tried to talk to me that time when I blew up after one of the criminals we'd arrested the week before for murder was exonerated due to lack of evidence." Potter's eyes flash with barely concealed rage, his expression darkening into something sinister. I can only imagine how hero Potter would take having someone get away with murder on his watch. I'd be worried if I didn't know that Potter is way too stupidly honourable to actually do anything about it.

"Ever thought about going to a Mind Healer?" I ask him, only half-joking.

Potter turns an almost vicious look on me.

"Have _you_ ever considered going to a Mind Healer?" He demands.

"No, of course not." I say narrowly. "Mind Healers are for crazy people. Like you. You're a crazy person, Potter. I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

"I'm no crazier than you, Malfoy." Potter says tightly.

"Exactly." I say, hiding a smirk. "And I'm barmy. Completely off my rocker. Probably even more so than you are at this point."

Potter looks confused. Good.

"But you just said that..." I can almost hear the click inside Potter's thick head, "...you're fucking with me, aren't you?"

"Potter, I'm always fucking with you." I say sweetly. "It's the foundation of our entire relationship."

Which is true. I've never had anyone in my life who I wanted to bother more than I wanted to bother Potter. I remember desperately trying to think of ways to get under Potter's skin when we were in school. I wanted to piss him off to the point where he'd have no choice but to react. Potter very rarely disappointed me in his reactions. They were often extreme. It was very satisfying for a teenage me.

Of course now I just wish I could get through one conversation with the sod that doesn't end in yelling or barbed comments being traded or a physical altercation. I don't want to hurt Potter anymore. Well, okay, I at least don't _want to want_ to hurt him. That's progress, right?

You ever get that feeling, like you don't know whether you're maturing or regressing with age? You know that you've come a long way, but at the same time you also know that you're nowhere near being the person you want to be. It's endlessly frustrating. I just want to be able to say 'right, that's it, this is me, this is the version of myself that I'm happy with and I'm sticking with it'. Even when Jamie was alive and we were happy, I still didn't feel like I'd truly accepted myself. And I don't mean just as a muggle. That was actually the easiest part for me to embrace. It's somehow less complicated to be okay with something when you've got no real alternative.

It makes me think of the sorting ceremony at Hogwarts. When that lanky hat is put on your head and a large part of your future is decided within a few seconds or minutes. You are what you are in that moment and there's fuck all you can do about it if the sorting hat decides you aren't the person you thought you were. I don't suppose many eleven year olds have deep set opinions on who they are fundamentally. I did though. When I was eleven I knew exactly what I wanted and why. But even so, when I sat on that stool and the sorting hat shouted 'Slytherin' barely a moment after being placed on my head I felt a twinge of...not quite disappointment, but a sense of resignation maybe? I knew what my life would hold from that moment onwards. There weren't going to be any surprises. And for a single, solitary, moment, I regretted that my entire future had been clicked into place within a few scant seconds by a sentient hat. I dismissed that feeling almost immediately, but still, it had been there all the same.

"You're doing that thing again." Potter says, bringing me out of my thoughts.

"Doing what? Walking? Breathing? Existing? Narrow it down for me, Potter."

Potter doesn't appear put off by my derisive tone this time.

"You're doing that thing where you go off into your own head and block everything else out." The hidden suggestion is clear, blocking every _ **one**_ else out.

"Yes, well, I can hardly be blamed for seeking better company considering what I have to work with at the moment." I say stiffly, looking at him pointedly.

Potter narrows his eyes, that strange intensity creeping back into them, if it ever really left. His expression is unreadable for once, which makes me nervous. I can feel Potter's scrutiny right down to my blood and bones, and it makes me want to smack him. Hard. In the face. With a chair.

"You do it whenever we start to have a serious conversation about anything." Potter says slowly, carefully, as if actively trying not to piss me off.

I can't decide if it's weird that he noticed my tendency to check out when I get uncomfortable with a topic or not. Maybe it's just his Auror powers of observation. Either way, I don't know why he's bringing it up now. Or at all.

To distract myself, and hopefully Potter as well, I look over at our children.

Lily is asleep in her stroller, which is unfortunate as she had been providing most of the entertainment for the last few hours. At least with Lily awake, Potter and I could concentrate on keeping her happy whilst our other children ran around, unleashed on the Aquarium. It only really started to get weird between me and Potter when Lily decided to take an early nap. Apparently she'd been up most of the night.

I definitely remember those days. The lack of sleep after Leo was born almost drove me batty. I was tired and frustrated enough by the end of the first month that I might have been more inclined to kill Dumbledore if Voldemort had promised to give me a few hours of uninterrupted rest.

No one ever tells you how possible it is to hate your own child with a fiery passion even as you love them unconditionally. Jamie and I went to a few parenting classes at the clinic when she was pregnant with Leo, and I really wish someone there had said _'When you've been awake for seventy-three hours straight and you have gone partially deaf from the sound of your child's almost constant screams and you have your partner yelling at you because you forgot to rinse out the milk pump and you are covered in a baby sick-piss-poop combo it's ok to want to sell your child to fairies as long as you don't actually do it'_. Now _that_ would have been extremely helpful. I felt like a monster for the first year of Leo's life. I thought I was the only one who wanted to break down every time I heard Leo cry and smash my head against a wall until I lost consciousness. I thought I was a horrible father and that any day Jamie would figure that out and divorce me and refuse to let me within ten feet of Leo ever again.

But then one day Penny sat me down and told me that I was doing a really good job and that Jamie had been telling her just that morning how she never could have done any of it without me. I guess Penny knew that I needed to hear those words. I needed to know that I wasn't messing everything up. I needed to feel like I was getting it right with both Jamie and Leo. That's one of the reasons why I love Penny. She fills in the spaces that even Jamie couldn't.

I realise that I'm spacing out again, and Potter is giving me a knowing look that I despise, so I force myself to concentrate.

So, yes, Lily is asleep in the stroller. Albus and Cissa have moved on from the shark tank and are now climbing all over the rather large statue of an octopus, both of them are still chattering to each other happily as they do so. Leo and James are over by the open topped crab and sting-ray tank where lots of people are reaching their hands in to touch the sealife swimming around. I can't quite tell what they're saying because it's so loud in here, but I can infer from their body language and expressions that they are daring each other to touch what is obviously a very big and very angry looking crap. I half hope one of them gets nipped by the pissed off crab. It might teach them something about poking at dangerous things. I worry that Hogwarts is a lethal place for a Gryffindor. Especially since my son is now the best friend of a Potter. Merlin only knows what kind of adventures those two will find themselves involved in. I pray that if my son really is James' Weasley then they at least have an Hermione at school to stop them from getting too hurt. From what Hermione's told me I reckon Potter and Weasley would be dead ten times over if it weren't for her. And I believe that wholeheartedly.

"That crab does not look poke-friendly." Potter says to me. He's now watching our sons with open amusement.

I turn to Potter and say,

"The fact that you think that any crab could be 'poke-friendly' tells me just about everything I need to know about you."

Potter, far from looking annoyed, actually smiles at me.

"What, have you never gotten the urge to poke something you know you shouldn't, Malfoy?"

I scoff indignantly.

"No. Some of us were too busy behaving like dignified human beings to go around poking dangerous things for the hell of it."

Potter gets a sudden glint in his eyes then, and I just know the next words out of his mouth are going to be ridiculous.

Potter takes hold of my wrist and pulls me over to the crab tank. I going along with it out of surprise more than anything else.

"Touch the crab, Malfoy." Potter says. He's pointing at a different, even larger and angrier, crab than the one the boys are fussing over.

"No." I say, glaring down at the crab in question. I think ' _evil_ ' at it.

"Come on, Malfoy, don't be a chicken." Potter goads teasingly. I can tell it isn't mean teasing. It's the kind of thing he might say to a friend. Which is odd. Because Potter and I, whatever else we might be, are _not_ friends. Ex-rivals, yes. Civil acquaintances, getting there. But friends? I can't even imagine what that would be like. I don't _want_ to imagine it.

"Potter, I am not a child." I say scornfully. "I will not be manipulated into touching a ferocious killer crab by you calling me names like we're both still eleven years old."

"Killer crab?" Potter questions, eyebrow firmly raised in judgement.

"Yes." I say, glaring. "You can tell from his beady red eyes that evil resides within him."

Potter just keeps on smiling at me like a lunatic and begins making chicken noises with far too much glee.

I hate him. My hatred of Potter is renewed once more. And I will destroy him if it is the last thing I accomplish in this life. I made a similar vow to myself when I actually was eleven. Here's hoping this time it all works out.

"Potter, shut up, you massive prat!" I hiss, wishing I had my magic and my wand so that I could hex Potter into oblivion.

"Poke the crab, Malfoy." Potter says, taking a pause from clucking.

"I am not going to touch the Dark Lord of all crabs, Potter." I snap at him, half hysterically. "That's more your area of expertise than mine."

Potter bursts out laughing at me then. It's the real kind of laughter that makes you snort unattractively. But Potter's snorting laughter is, somehow, not all that bad. In fact it's kind of a good look on the bastard. I hate people who manage to look good whilst doing something ridiculous. It's bloody unnatural. And annoying.

"Ah, yes," Potter says in a mock wistful voice, "that time I fought the evil Dark Lord of crabs and saved the world from his snippy destruction. What a glorious day that was."

"You're a moron. And a prat." I mutter darkly at him.

Potter flashes me another blinding smile.

"And you're a chicken. And a weirdo."

"I am not weird." I snap.

"You are though." Potter says with what seems like genuine happiness. "Like properly you are. It's brilliant."

"Not poking an evil crab that will probably break my fingers off is not weird, Potter." I say. "It's common sense. Maybe if you'd ever had some then you would know that."

"I have common sense." Potter argues. "I just choose not to let it hold me back from doing stuff."

"And therein lies the problem." I say, waving a hand at Potter.

"Just poke the crab, Malfoy." Potter says earnestly.

"Why?" I ask, a bit suspicious now.

Potter shrugs and says,

"Because."

"Because _why_?"

"No real reason. Haven't you ever done something _just because_."

"No, why on earth would anyone do that?

"Wow, that's quite sad, Malfoy."

"Shut up."

"You need to live a little."

"I'll live a little by poking a crab?"

"Ye _p_."

"That's ridiculous. _You're_ ridiculous."

"Yeah, I know, but you're definitely going to do it though, aren't you?"

"No, of course not."

I poke the stupid crab.

"Right, your turn." I say, after narrowly escaping having my fingers clipped off. He managed to get the edge of my thumb and I'll probably feel that for the rest of the day. Evil bloody crab.

Potter rolls his eyes at me and reaches down without even looking to poke the crab. The Dark Lord of all crabs latches on to Potter's finger and clamps down. Hard. Potter hisses in pain and tries to pull his hand away. Dark Lord Crabmort comes flying out of the tank still holding onto Potter's finger.

"Bloody hell!" Potter shouts. He dislodges Dark Lord Crabmort by flinging his arm outwards. Dark Lord Crabmort goes sailing through the air and hits another man right in the face. The man screams and grabs hold of the crab, throwing it across the room. It lands on a woman's head and she begins to scream as well.

People all around us start shouting and flapping about in the face of a crab crisis. A few parents trip over their own feet to grab their children and make a run for it towards the exit. But then the exit gets jammed with people and no one can escape, which just makes people shout and scream and stamp around even more. Someone even gets accidentally pushed into the tank, and that really sets people off. Aquarium workers attempt to get into the room, but because everyone is trying to get out at the same time, they can't get in. After a few minutes of panicked frenzy one bloke loses it and pulls the fire alarm. Because, surely that'll help. The alarm goes off, making a horribly loud sound that drowns out all the people screaming, and the sprinklers on the ceiling start spraying water over everyone.

James and Albus are laughing their heads off from the other side of the tank, having seen our display. Cissa and Albus are looking over at us now from their positions on the octopus statue. They both have exasperated expressions on their faces, as if this is all just so typical of their fathers. Lily has been startled awake by the commotion. Like a true Potter, she looks enthralled by the drama instead of upset by being woken up.

I glance at Potter, who looks very sheepish, as well he should. I say to him,

"And that's what happens when you do things _'just because'_."

"Yeah, somehow it always turns out this way." Potter says, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

I find myself smiling then. Because, despite the madness, I haven't had this much fun in a long time. I realise belatedly that through all this, Potter still hasn't let go of my wrist. I look down at where we're touching and then back up at Potter's face. He's clearly noticed the same thing, and the flush on his face gets even more pronounced.

Instead of pulling away I lean in closer to Potter and say directly into his ear so that he can hear me above the racket of the alarm and the crazy muggles.

"You, Harry James Potter, are chaos incarnate."

Potter shivers and turns his head to look directly at me. Our faces are inches apart, and I can finally see just how purely green his eyes are. Most people's eyes are a mixture of colours, or at least a mixture of shades from the same colour. But Potter's eyes are a bright emerald green, without a trace of anything else. Potter's eyes hold a sense of strength that is unmistakable. They're powerful eyes. Voldemort must have hated them.

Potter looks me dead in the eye and offers me his hand. His eyes flash dangerously.

"Draco Malfoy...want to be friends?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR READING! PLEASE COMMENT, I'D LOVE TO HEAR FROM YOU HUMANY TYPES! xx


	7. If you ever awake in the mirror of a bad dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you ever awake  
> In the mirror of a bad dream  
> And for a fraction of a second,  
> You can't remember where you are  
> Just open your window  
> And follow your memories  
> Upstream  
> To the meadow in the mountain  
> Where we counted every falling star
> 
> I believe the light that shines on you  
> Will shine on you forever  
> (forever)  
> And though I can't guarantee there's nothing scary  
> Hidin' under your bed  
> I'm gonna  
> Stand guard  
> Like the postcard  
> Of the golden retriever  
> And never leave  
> 'Til I leave you  
> With a sweet dream in your head
> 
> I'm gonna watch you shine  
> Gonna watch you grow  
> Gonna paint a sign  
> So you always know  
> As long as one and one is two  
> Ooh ooh  
> There could never be a father  
> Love his daughter more than I love you
> 
> Father and Daughter by Paul Simon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading! Hope you all enjoy this chapter!

After the disastrous episode with Dark Lord Crabby, we all make a quick exit. Luckily it's about time for lunch anyway, so Potter and I take the children to The White Hare, which is a local family-friendly pub. It's a nice day by British winter standards and we decide to sit outside on a large bench table.

"You hit that muggle right in the face, Dad. It was epic." James says, sounding weirdly proud of his father for accidentally attacking someone with an angry crab. Well, he is a Potter. And a Weasley. Not all that surprising if he has a violent streak in him. He's also an eleven year old boy, which means he most likely has a somewhat lax relationship with basic human things, like empathy and common sense. My own son is no different in that regard.

"Yeah, Mr Potter, it was well worth going to the Aquarium just to see that." Leo says, although he casts a cautious glance at me, as if waiting to be told off for voicing his agreement with his friend's assessment.

I give him a firm eyebrow raise, but allow my good humour to shine through when I say,

"Yes, well, next time to save ourselves some time and money we'll just go to the park and Pot- _Harry_ can attack someone with a Frisbee instead."

"I did not _attack_ that man." Potter argues, narrowing his eyes at me. "It was an accident."

"Don't be modest, Harry." I say, barely managing to hide my smirk of genuine amusement. "I'm sure the Auror department appreciate your crab-lobbing abilities."

"Strangely enough, crab-lobbing isn't one of the Auror requirements." Potter says sarcastically.

"That really is a shame." I say, mock whistfully. "You, Harry Potter, so rarely get recognised for your unique brilliance."

Potter's expression is cross between annoyed and amused. It doesn't help that Lily is sitting on his lap and trying to push a plastic straw up his nose with great enthusiasm.

"Maybe you should write the Ministry a letter expressing your feelings on the matter." He says dryly.

"I might." I say, not rising to the bait, which I know will frustrate Potter more than if I snapped at him.

I'm distracted from my fun of poking at Potter by Cissa. She tugs on my jacket sleeve and asks sweetly,

"Daddy, can Al and I get down and play, please?"

Cissa is giving me her big kitten eyes. Very pleading and innocent. I don't buy it for even a second. Jamie always said I was a sucker for those looks from my daughter, but I've become somewhat more immune to them over the years.

"My answer is the same as it was ten minutes ago, Cissa." I say firmly. "You can get down once you've eaten all of your peas."

Cissa groans and throws her head back dramatically.

"But D _aaaa_ d, there are, like, a _billion_ peas on my plate and I'm only a _little_ girl. I'll _explode_ if I eat _all_ of them." She gestures disdainfully at the small heap of peas still sitting uneaten in front of her.

I smile gently at my daughter and say with a heavy sigh of fake weariness,

"I'm afraid that is a risk I am willing to take."

Cissa immediately begins to pout and slumps down in her seat. She's usually quite good at eating her vegetables, much better than Leo ever was, or is. But when Cissa gets into a mood like the one she's in right now, it almost seems as if she and I are at odds about everything.

When Cissa was eight she ran away from home because I wouldn't let her have a pet snake. She was obsessed with snakes for months and took every avilable oppertunity to sing their praises to me. I'd hoped at first that she would forget about it over time and move on to something else, as children that age often do. But Cissa isn't like other children. She is as stubborn and strong willed as her mother, and if I'm being honest, she's as arrogant as I was at her age.

When Cissa finally asked me, well more like demanded but hey, point blank to get her a snake, I said no without hesitation. Because there was no way in hell I'd ever want to going near another bloody snake if I could help it. After a year of watching Nagini eat people off the same dining room table where I used to enjoy dinner with my parents, the thought of having any kind of snake in my home was just short of genunely nausiating.

Cissa did not take my refusal to precure her a snake companion very well at all. In fact she got so upset that her accidental magic caused our old teapot to explode. Thankfully it didn't have any actual tea in it otherwise Penny would have gone spare. She doesn't often lose her cool with the kids, but there are times when they would test the patient of a saint. I held firm that day though, because unfortunately having your children shout that they hate you is often the price of doing your job. Or at least, it is for _my_ children.

If I'd ever spoken to my own parents the way Cissa and Leo sometimes speak to me, then I wouldn't have had to worry about Voldemort, because my parents would have already disowned me. Not that they didn't love me, I know that they did in their own, slightly obscure, way. But Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had certain expectations for their son, and if I didn't meet those expectations then I sure as hell knew about it. Because my father would lecture me about what I'd done wrong like his life depended on it, and my mother would reiterate that lecture more than once just to really drive it all the way home that I'd failed. And I did fail during my childhood. A lot. More than they, or I, thought was possible.

After Cissa was done with her tantrum with the teapot, she stalked off to her room and packed up her school bag with a few random pieces of clothing, some books, three satsumas, and the dreamcatcher that hangs above her bed. Jamie bought it for her after Cissa had a particularly horrid nightmare. I told Jamie such things were nonsense and Jamie teased me for doubting the power of muggle magic.

Once Cissa's bag was ready and bulging with items, she anounced to me that she was leaving home. Forever. Cissa put on her coat, slung her pink polka dot rucksack over her shoulders, and marched out the flat, down the stairs, through the cafe, and out the front door. I followed after her, making no comment, honestly curious as to how far she'd take it.

I watched Cissa march, undaunted and determined, down the street. When I could no longer see her from the Cafe entrance I got into our car and drove after her. I caught up to my daughter very quickly and resigned myself to driving alongside her for however long she would keep going to prove her point. Luckily it was a Sunday so there were hardly any other cars on the road.

It was also lucky that Leo was over at a friend's house that day, otherwise I would have had to take him with me. And car trips, especially long ones, with Leo are a nightmare all of their own. Every ten seconds its 'Leo, put your seatbelt back on', 'Leo, close the window for goodness sake, its freezing' 'Leo, do not stick your head out the window, we are on a _motorway_ ' 'Leo stop pinching your sister' 'Leo stop kicking your sister' 'Leo do not undo your sister's seatbelt' 'Leo, put the ball down, no football in the car' 'Leo don't you dare throw that ball out the window' 'Leo! No! You cannot climb through to the front!' 'Leo get out of my lap, there's a police car over there! Do you want your father to be arrested?' 'No, Leo, if I get arrested then the policeman will not let you play with the flashy blue lights' 'Yes Leo, I am sure' and on and on and _on_. My son is the worst passenger who has ever lived. I'm quite sure of it. The fact that I haven't ever crashed is a miracle. It seems that all the trauma in my post magical life is to be caused by bloody muggle vehicles.

To give Cissa full credit, she walked for two and a half hours without breaking and for the entire time she didn't acknowledge me driving beside her even once. I was secretly very impressed with her fortitued. Finally, however, she sat down on a bench, crossed her arms, and glared at me. I parked the car and went to sit beside her. We sat there together for a long time, not speaking.

Eventually though Cissa turned to me and asked,

" _But **why** can't I have a pet snake Daddy? I **promise** that I would take care of him. I really, **really** , would_."

And, it was almost funny, because I believed her. I believed that she actually would take very good care of a pet snake if I got her one. But that wasn't the point, and I realised in that moment with my eight year old daughter giving me the most sincere look of confusion I'd ever seen, that I had to tell her the real reason why. It would have felt too wrong to lie. So I did tell her. Not all of it of course, I didn't want to scar her with the whole truth. But I explained as best I could.

" _When I was a teenager, there was a man, a very bad man, who did horrible things to me and lots of other people. He had a pet snake and he used that snake to do some of those horrible things. Having a snake in the house would remind me of when that very bad man lived in my childhood home with his snake_."

I tried to keep my voice as even as possible, but it was hard, and I don't think I entirely suceeded. Cissa reached out her hands to grasp onto one of mine and she squeezed it comfortingly. I looked at her and my daughter looked back at me unflinchingly, her pale eyes bright with a spark of bravery that made me proud in ways I wouldn't have been able to accurately describe to anyone else.

" _Are you afraid of snakes, Dad_?" Cissa asked me, her voice dead serious.

I'd smiled a bit and answered,

" _No. I'm more afraid of the memories really_."

Cissa made a face then that reminded me so much of Jamie that it felt like a physical blow to my chest, and she said simply,

" _Grandma told me that nightmares can't hurt you unless you let them. I think that memories can be like nightmares sometimes_."

" _Except that memories are real_." I said.

Cissa had arched an ebony eyebrow at me, her expression morphing into something that was all me, full of saracasm and scorn. She said firmly,

" _So are nightares when you're still asleep_."

She said it with all the confidence and conviction of a child who knows with absolute certainty that they are right and you are wrong and nothing will presuade them otherwise.

" _What are your nightmares about?"_ I asked her.

Cissa smiled at me then and said,

" _Snakes_. _That's why I need to get one. So my nightmares won't be able to scare me anymore_."

It healed something in me, hearing her say those words. Some deeply buried ripped piece of my soul knitted back into place. Because I have a daughter who is braver than I ever was. She gave me something in that moment. Cissa showed me a small glimpse of the woman she would one day become and for the first time since Jamie died I felt genuine excitement for the future. Before that it had been one day at a time. I never looked too far forward because without Jamie, I felt lost. But in that one moment I found myself eager to see who my daughter would become, and who I would become as well.

We're always changing. In small ways. In big ways. In all the ways that help us build the lives we live and fight for.

So yeah. Ok. I got my daughter a snake. He lives in a tank in Cissa's room. His name is Frank. I still suspect that he will one day escape his tank and eat us all, despite the fact that he's a tiny garden snake who sleeps most hours of the day. Even pure evil has to nap apparently.

I turn away from my daughter now and let her sulk about the unwanted peas. She'll hold onto her rage and write angrily about how mean I am in the fluffy blue diary she has at home. One of the hardest things you have to learn as a parent is to let your kid be pissed at you. That isn't always the case of course, some things need to be talked about. But most of the time you have to back off, allow them their rightious anger, and wait until they've decided if the argument is worth persuing. Most of the time it isn't, and that's ok too.

I realise when I look up that Potter is watching me with grimly amused understanding. He's likely been through similar things with his own children. As if to prove my point, Potter says to his second born,

"That goes for you too, Al. Eat all your carrots and you can get down."

Albus is also slumped in his seat looking mutinous. Cissa and Albus glance at each other across the wooden table and share their own look of understanding.

" _So_ unfair." Cissa mutters.

" _Yeah_." Albus agrees.

I snort a little bit, hiding laughter, and say to Potter,

"We are clearly evil, _evil_ , fathers."

Potter nods mock solemly at me.

"Yes, whatever did these poor children do to deserve such awful parents who ask them to eat the food they asked for?"

"Quick Harry, call your Auror friends," I say, "and tell them to arrest us before we can damage our precious little flowers any further."

Potter and I both burst out laughing.

Cissa glares at us and snaps,

"You aren't funny."

Which only causes us to laugh even harder.

Cissa, Albus, and now James and Leo are staring at us like we've both grown an extra head. Lily is the only one who doesn't seem to find anything strange. She's laughing along with us, even though she has no idea why we're laughing in the first place.

I laugh so hard that I start to cry. I know it isn't even that funny, but something about the expressions on our children's faces makes it so that I can't seem to stop laughing.

"Dad, are you, like, having a mental break down right now?" Leo asks me. He looks genuinely confused, and a little worried.

"I think they're sharing an old person joke." James says, rolling his eyes.

Potter lightly cuffs James over the head and says,

"Oi, we are not _old_."

"We're pretty old compared to them." I say, shrugging one shoulder.

"Everyone is old compared them, they're just babies." Potter says.

That gets us a chorus of " _We aren't babies_ " from Cissa, Albus, Leo and James. They all start to argue with each other about why they aren't babies and who the most grown up among them is.

I sigh loudly, having had enough of whinging children for one day.

"Alright, that's it, Cissa, Leo, go away."

My children turn startled looks on me. I keep my expression plain.

"What?" Cissa asks suspiciously.

"I mean it," I say, "both of you get down a go play in the park for a while so that I can sit here in peace."

There's a playpark area on the far side of the pub's garden.

Potter, surprisingly takes his cue from me and says James and Albus,

"You two go on and behave yourselves. No throwing wet leaves at each other or shoving your brother off the swings. And take your sister with you so she can have a go on the slide."

Potter lets Lily slip off his lap. James and Albus take their sister's hands in theirs.

Cissa reaches up to kiss me on the cheek and says brightly,

"Thank you, Daddy."

"Yeah, yeah. Go on, off with you." I say waving my hand at the pub's playpark.

All four kids don't hesitate to run off towards the playpark without a backward glance.

Potter smiles wryly at me and gestures towards Cissa's plate.

"What about the peas?"

I pick up Cissa's plate and pour the discarded peas onto my own plate. I eat all the peas in three forkfuls and give Potter a satisfied smile.

"What peas?" I ask.

Potter laughs again, and the corners of his eyes wrinkle slightly. His age is beginning to show just a little bit.

"I found a grey hair the other day." I tell Potter once he's stopped laughing like an idiot.

"Must have been pretty traumatic for you." Potter says, eyes having drifted up to my hair pointedly. I brushed it this morning, but since then we've been through a trip to the Aquarium and a crab attack, so it probably looks almost as messy as Potter's. Hopefully not quite as disastrous though. Potter has one particular cowlick near his temple that I really want to smooth down. If he were anyone but Potter then I might actually consider climbing over the table and doing it.

"I don't find getting old as horrifying as I thought I would." I say honestly.

Potter raises an eyebrow at that.

"Really? Always figured you'd be a right drama queen about it."

"Well, that just goes to show how little you know me." I say, making sure to keep one eye on the children.

Potter leans forward and crosses his arms on the table. He pierces me with one of his intense Auror stares, causing me to shift in my seat uncomfortably.

"I know some stuff about you." He says quietly.

I snort in annoyance.

"Thanks for making that sounds as ominous as possible, Potter."

"You're welcome, Malfoy." Potter says, nonplussed by my obvious irritation.

I roll my eyes after a somewhat tense pause, forcing myself to look away from Potter's impossibly vivid eyes. Merlin, has there ever been a man born more infuriating than Potter?

"Alright, fine, I'll ask. What do you know about me oh facetious one?"

Potter's lips quirk, but he doesn't smile. His eyes are still laser focused on my face.

"I know that you're still a mopey git even after sixteen years."

I glare at him, but Potter goes on before I can say anything in response.

"I know that you're a teacher, and part of the reason for that is Severus Snape. I know you're a great father, because of Leo. I know you hate cars, I just don't know why. I know you loved your wife a lot, because it's been five years and you're still wearing your ring. I know you miss magic, but at the same time, you really don't. Am I right about any of these? Because I feel like I am."

I'm frozen in my seat, unable to move, speak or even breathe. I can't decide if I want to leap across the table and strangle Potter, or get as far away from him as I possibly can. I feel like he's inside my head, looking at the walls of my mind, and leaving parts of himself behind.

Potter suddenly looks panicked.

"Shit, Malfoy- _Draco_ -I'm sorry. Merlin, I shouldn't have said-"

I suck in a much needed breath and say hoarsely,

"You're a massive prat."

Potter winces and nods.

"Yeah, that hasn't changed much either apparently."

A very long and strange silence follows between us. I try to get my head in a less messed up place, and Potter just sits there looking like he always does. Stubborn and alone. I remember that from our Hogwarts days. Potter looked more lonely than anyone as famous as him had a right to be. It pissed me off back then, and it...well, it still does now. But I think the reasons why are different.

"Harry-bloody-Potter." I scoff, shaking my head.

Potter tilts his head to one side, watching me warily.

"I never realised before." I tell him. "But being you must be terrible."

Potter frowns at that and asks,

"Why do you think that?"

"Because despite all the ways that you and I are different, there are some things about us that are the same." I say.

"Like what?" Potter asks.

"We both suffered because of our names, because of who our parents are, because of all the crap people expected from us." I say.

"We both lost our wives." Potter says mildly.

"We both lost more than our fare share of people." I say.

"I had to be the hero." Potter says.

"No. You chose it. Just like I chose to be the villain." I counter.

"You weren't a villain. You were just a boy." Potter argues.

"You lost more than me." I say.

"I didn't lose my magic." Potter says.

"I didn't lose a childhood with parents who loved me." I say. "And I didn't lose my magic either. It was taken from me."

"My parents were taken from me too." Potter says coldly.

"Yeah." I murmur. "They were."

Potter scowls and offers,

"We could have been friends."

I shake my head.

"No. We couldn't have."

"We can be friends now, though?" Potter asks, those eyes locked on mine once again. I see the truth in them. I see the confusion that matches mine as well.

I scrape my thumb over the hard surface of the wooden table and say,

"Maybe."


	8. I made it through the day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My eyes are open wide  
> By the way  
> I made it through the day  
> I watch the world outside  
> By the way  
> I'm leaving out today
> 
> I just saw Haley's comet, shooting  
> She waved, said, "Why are you always running in place"  
> Even the man in the moon disappeared  
> Somewhere in the stratosphere
> 
> Tell my mother, tell my father  
> I have done the best I can  
> To make them realize  
> This is my life  
> I hope they understand  
> I'm not angry, I'm just saying  
> Sometimes goodbye is a second chance
> 
> Second Chance By Shinedown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!

"Leo Scorpius Malfoy! Get that bloody owl out of the fridge right now, before I decide to bake him into an owl pie." Penny shouts from the kitchen.

I decide not to go in there and instead stay in the living room for a multitude of reasons. One of them being that I don't think I'll be able to tell my son off for letting his owl, Balt, sleep in the fridge (again) with a straight face. Mostly because if Penny were to catch me looking in any way amused by the situation, she would thwack me over the head with her dish towel. Or maybe even the dreaded blue wooden spoon of impending doom that all sane people should fear.

I hear Leo go running into the kitchen, sounding like a herd of angry penguins. Leo argues grouchily with Penny.

"But, Grandma, Balt _likes_ it in there. The fridge's whirring sound helps him sleep."

I can easily imagine the face Penny has just pulled in response to that utter nonsense. Hopefully she hasn't reached the point where the skin beneath her left eye twitches. That usually means someone is about to get banished to their room. I know this because back when I was a twenty-something snarky little shit I got sent to my room a lot. So did Jamie.

Neither of us minded very much when we actually started sharing a room, but Penny didn't need to know that. She probably did know, because Penny always knows, but Jamie and I pretended she didn't.

"Leo." I hear Penny say, a very frustrated edge to her tone. "Owls do not belong in the fridge. In my opinion they do not belong _inside_ at all. But your father insisted that magicians keep owls as pets, so I allowed Baltazar to live in our flat. However, I draw the line at the fridge. Baltazar stays in his cage in your room during the holidays, or he can fly around outside. Those are his two options. Feel free to relay the new owl house rules to that feathered nusiance."

I press my lips together very hard to stop myself from outright laughing. Cissa, from her place next to me on the sofa, does not share my restraint. She snorts out a laugh that sounds more mocking than amused. I think for a moment about chastising her. My own mother would have scolded me for making such an undignified noise. But then I remember that I am not my mother, and that I've done and said many things over the years that would have horrified her.

When I'm at my most morose I find myself thinking that maybe part of me is glad that my mother didn't live to see the man I've become. Narcissa Malfoy was far more tolerant than her husband, but she still expected a certain standard of behaviour from me. I was a Pureblood heir, and I had to act as such, even though being Pureblood meant surprisingly little to those outside of our very small social circle.

I remember, once, when I was about eight, my parents and I were at a dinner party during our annual holiday to France. There were many European Pureblood aristrocats in attendance and my mother warned me before we arrived that I was to be seen and not heard unless I was spoken to directly. Even then, I was to keep my replies short and polite.

During the party I sat with the other rich magical children, none of whom I'd met before, and we all remained silent and mostly unmoving for the whole night. That was until a boy a few years older than me, I believe his name was Stefan Markov, started to pick on Maria Annett, a small girl who was seated between me and Stefan. He pulled on her hair and pinched her leg under the table and whispered nasty things to her under his breathe. I only heard him because I was sitting so close.

For reasons that made little to no sense to me at the time, I felt myself growing angry with Stefan. I didn't understand it then, because he wasn't actually doing anything to bother _me,_ and I'd been taught by my parents to mind my own business. Unless intervening earned me something in return obviously.

That night, however, I decided that Stefan being cruel to Maria was my problem and I reacted thusly. I turned my best Malfoy scowl on Stefan and hissed at him to _'Stop being a massive tosser and leave Maria alone'_. Stefan, as young boys are wont to do, took _offense_ to my _defense_ of Maria and proceeded to turn his meanness on me for the rest of the party.

I put up with his taunts and pokes and pinches with all the dignity instilled in me by my parents and did my best to ignore Stefan. My lack of reaction was clearly viewed as another insult to Stefan and he decided to ramp up the pratish behaviour ten-fold. He reached under the table and stabbed me in the thigh with his fork. The fork didn't break enough skin to bleed, but it bloody hurt enough to force a hiss of pain out of me.

If I was the son my parents wanted me to be, then I would have continued to ignore Stefan and planned revenge for later when I wouldn't get caught. But, unfortunately, Potter isn't the only one between us who had something of a temper as a child.

I did nothing to hide my fury when I turned a ferocious glare on Stefan. I grabbed hold of the fork Stefan had puctured my leg with and yanked it out of his hand. By that point almost everyone sat at the table had stopped talking to stare dissaprovingly at us.

If I was a proper Pureblood heir I would have stopped, put the fork on the table, and apologised for causing a scene. But in that moment I was not thinking of myself as Draco Malfoy The Perfect Pureblood Heir. I was thinking of myself as Draco The Boy Who Wants To Stab That Pillock Stefan In The Face With His Own Fork.

I didn't actually stab Stefan in the face. I did something, arguably, worse in the eyes of my parents. I shouted. I all but screamed at him. I called that boy some of the worst names I knew as an eight year old boy. I lost my collective shit in the worst possible way for someone like me to do.

I was _not_ a proper Pureblood. I was _not_ the son my parents wanted me to be. I was a little boy who tried to stand up to a bully because, in that moment, it felt like the right thing to do.

After that dinner party my father shunned me for over a month. My mother still acknowledged me, but she behaved even more coldly towards me than she usually did, which is really saying something. Neither of them ever brought it up. I wasn't punished. I wasn't yelled at. I wasn't locked up in a cellar and starved. I was just...nothing.

But they didn't need to actually say the words for me to know how much I'd dissapointed them. They never did. I always knew. Because, when I'd done something to truly upset my parents I became **nothing** to them.

If I couldn't be the son and heir they both expected me to be then they didn't have any other use for me. That is a fact I have known all my life. I wasn't even aware some parents didn't see their children as simply assets to be cultivated and used until I started Hogwarts.

My mother loved me, I know she did. But it was the kind of love one can only look at and never touch, like a priceless family heirloom. I knew it was there, but I was not allowed to reach out for it. I don't begrudge her that distance. Love made of glass was all she could understand. And with a family like the Black's, I could see why.

I think my father loved me too, in his own way. A very dangerous way that never did either of us any good. But still. We take what we can from our parents, no matter how damaging it may be.

I loved my parents. I did. I loved them with a desperation that scared me, especially during the war. Everything I did, it was for them. Everything I gave up, I gave for them. Everything I now hate myself for, I did to keep them safe.

That night in France was the last time I defended someone else for a really long time.

I slump down in my seat and sigh heavily. Our large, yellow sofa is soft enough from years of use to mold comfortably to my form as I move.

Jamie used to call our sofa the 'Ugly Duckling', and not just because it truly is the ugliest sofa you will ever have the misfortune to set your eyes on. She called it the 'Ugly Duckling' because of the reason why we bought it in the first place. And because of the reason why we kept it.

When Leo was about two years old he did the worlds most disgusting shit on our old sofa. Potty training is a lot more difficult than the child development books suggest. It didn't help that Leo abjectly refused to wear nappies. As soon as we managed to get one on him, which was an impressive feat all by itself, Leo would find a way to take the nappy off in half the amount of time it took to put it on.

Anyway, Penny tried everything to remove the stain from our old sofa, but nothing worked. I don't even think magic could have helped that lost cause. Eventually I convinced Penny to let me buy a new sofa for the living room. I argued that the old sofa was falling apart and that we needed a bigger one anyway .

Jamie and I went to IKEA with Leo to pick out a new sofa. I wanted something leather. Jamie wanted something in a bright colour. Penny just wanted something easy to clean. Leo wanted...well, Leo wanted a sofa he could jump on like a trampoline. He tested out almost every single sofa in the department store that day. Twice.

We kept getting evil looks from one of the floor managers. I could tell he wanted to pick up one of the signs that read 'Do Not Touch The Furniture' and wave it in front of our faces.

But, honestly, getting a child to walk around a shop calmly and quietly without touching anything is virtually impossble if you want to actually do any shopping. Even the most well behaved little demons will act up on shopping trips. It's like children get a handbook when they're born called 'Ways To Slowly Dismantle My Parent's Sanity'. If that handbook does exist then one of the points is definitely 'When on a shopping trip make sure to cause as much disruption and chaos as is physically possible'. Apart from when they're in toys shops. There are contingency rules for that.

Jamie and I, being the young and niave parents that we were then, made the grand mistake of going out for ice cream _before_ entering IKEA. Any well versed parent knows that the ice cream/chocolate/Mcdonalds always comes _after_ the shopping trip. I'm not ashamed to say that I have bribed my children with sweets and such for the promise of non-gremlin-like behaviour when out in public.

Any parent who says they've never bribed their children is a dirty liar of the highest order. How else would you convince your child not to grass on you to your significant other for saying a _'bad_ _word, daddy, that's a **bad word'**_ when some tosser cuts you off at a roundabout.

Predictably, all hiped up on suger from the ice cream and the excitment that IKEA always induces, Leo ended up being sick on one of the sofa's mid-jump. It was a ginourmous yellow thing that looked like it belonged in a cheap hotel lobby.

According to the irate floor manager, that sofa had been in the shop for years and was the longest standing item yet to be sold. I was shocked that no one wanted to buy the giant fluffy banana. Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot to mention that it was a yellow fluffy _fur_ sofa didn't I? Ah, well, it is. Our sofa is very fluffy and terrible, and honestly I find myself genuinely concerned every time I see it that anyone in their right mind came up with the design in the first place.

It was, and still is, the sofa of nightmares. Fluffy nightmares.

So we bought it. Obviously. You don't get to go around throwing up on things and then just walk away afterwards. Apparently. IKEA have very serious laws about it. In writing. And I know that because the floor manager showed me the offical documentation. He was very smug about it too. Far too smug for a middle aged man wearing a ten pound suit from ASDA and sporting a, frankly, out of control beard that would have made Hagrid look well groomed.

Jamie thought the whole thing was hilarious. I did not.

The fluffy sofa of pure and unashamed ugliness didn't even have the decency to be cheap. It was bloody expensive actually. I was almost sick myself when Beardy The Smug told me the price.

We had to have the sofa delivered because it was far too big for our little mini cooper. It would have been too big even if we'd had a truck.

When the sofa arrived, Penny took one look at it and said simply _'I'm not cleaning that bullshit_ '.

But, despite the sofa's horrific ugliness, over the years we grew to love it. After so many nights spent watching films with the children and relaxing with Jamie and falling asleep on it when I stayed up to do paperwork, that yellow fluffy monster of a sofa became a source of happiness and comfort for our family.

That's why Jamie called our sofa the Ugly Duckling. Because of what it was. And because of how it changed into something so much better.

Cissa brings me out of my thoughts by poking my arm. Hard.

"Daddy?"

I turn my head to look at her properly.

"Yes, sweatheart?"

Cissa is watching me with critical eyes.

"You're doing that not-blinking thing again. Like how Frank does sometimes. It's really creepy." Cissa says.

I suppress a smile and reply primly,

"Yes, well, maybe _Frank_ has important things to think about." Like how to destroy and consume us all in our sleep.

Cissa rolls her unimpressed grey eyes, eyes that match my own so perfectly.

"Are you sad about Leo going back to school tomorrow?" Cissa asks me, apparently willing to change the subject now that I've begun teasing her.

"I'm not sad." I tell her. Which isn't really a lie. "But I will miss him. Just like I'll miss you when you start Hogwarts."

Cissa scowls very seriously in a way that only nine year old little girls can pull off.

"Daddy, do I _have_ to go to Hogwarts?" Cissa asks, just as seriously. Before I can respond she adds, "It's just...all of my friends are going to St Albion secondary after they finish primary school."

I try to hide my startled expression. I've never heard Cissa voice any complaints about Hogwarts before. But, to be fair, we've never really discussed it openly. Not because I have a problem with talking about Hogwarts, but because Cissa hasn't shown any interest in knowing much about the magical world in general. Maybe that should have made me expect this kind of coversation to take place eventually.

"Well...uh," I start hesitantly. I suddenly wish I'd had time to really think about what I want to say. I should have considered this scenario and planned what my response would be if either of my children ever brought it up.

Cissa is watching me like a hawk. She's pretending not to care. I can tell that she really does though. My daughter may look exactly like Jamie, but her expressions are usually all me. I recognise the hidden fear behind her eyes. What I'm not sure of is if she's afraid I'll demand that she go to Hogwarts or that I'll simply be upset and angry that she might not want to go at all. It's probably a little bit of both.

I'm not upset. Or angry. And I would never force either of my children to be part of the magical world. I can't imagine ever forcing them to do anything without being vivdly reminded of all the times during my youth when I was forced to do things by my own father. At the time, I felt as if so many of my choices were taken away.

I clear my throat and try again, trying to sound more sure of my words.

"No, Cissa. You don't _have_ to attend Hogwarts if that's not what you want." I say calmly, carefully, and Cissa's body language relaxes slightly. I meet her eyes and go on with a more somber tone. "But if you decide to go to a muggle secondary then you'll have to be absolutely sure that's what you want. Don't do it just because your friends are going to be there. Seven years is a long time, and if you don't go to Hogwarts then you won't be able to learn any magic."

Cissa considers this, and I know she's thinking about it rationally. Between the two of them Cissa has always been the more logic-minded than Leo. Despite the fact that Cissa and Leo have very Gryffindor-like boldness and bravery, I think maybe Cissa could be sorted into Ravenclaw just as easily.

"Leo loves Hogwarts." Cissa remarks after a long pause.

I nod my agreement.

"He does." I say diplomatically.

"But I don't think I care about magic." Cissa says with a sigh.

My daughter, a Malfoy, doesn't _care_ about magic. I don't know why that thought makes me want to laugh hysterically, but it does. I manage to keep myself in check though. Barely.

"Don't worry too much about it right now, Cissa." I say gently in the face of Cissa's genuine frustration. "You have plenty of time to consider all of your options."

Not _that much_ time though. Cissa will turn ten soon and then come September it'll be just another year of primary school. I know from experience that a year can fly by at an alarming speed.

Cissa opens her mouth again to speak, probably to ask me another 'adult question' that all parents dread. Questions like 'where do babies come from?' and 'how do they make chicken nuggets?' and 'why is Mrs Hurley from next door throwing Mr Hurley's clothes out of the window and shouting about him _shagging that skinny receptionist from his work_?' That question is usually closely followed by 'Daddy, what does 'shagging' mean?'

Jamie almost strangled 'Mrs Hurley from next door' once when she told Leo that it was only a matter of time before I had it off with some other woman and left to start a new family. I'd never seen Jamie look so livid in all the time I'd known her. I think Jamie would have even frightened off Voldemort if she'd been given the chance.

I don't know exactly what Jamie said that day when she dragged Mrs Hurley into the alley between our buildings, but whatever it was caused Mrs Hurley to never speak to any of us again. She didn't even look at us apart from occasionally sending fearful looks Jamie's way. Every time she did Jamie would flash a fierce, smug, smile that I thought was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen.

Before Cissa can ask whatever, likely difficult, question she was about to ask, Penny comes storming into the living room weilding a kitchen towel and a tub of Flora butter. She stops to loom over the sofa and pierces me with a vicious glare. I instinctively shrink back in my seat and resist the urge to hide behind Cissa.

Penny is fuming. Steam is practically coming out of her ears. I sigh inwardly. Leo could try the patience of a saint even on his best day. He and Penny have had plenty of run ins over the years. They love each other, I've never doubted that, but they don't half get on each others' nerves. Personally I think it's because they're very alike. I'd have my head bit off if I ever suggested that though.

"What's going on Pen?" I ask carefully.

Penny lets loose an almighty huff that makes me want to hide even more. She shoves the tub of butter under my nose and snaps,

"What's going on? I'll bloody well tell you what's going on Draco Abraxas Malfoy. That sodding rat with wings has pooed in the butter."

Penny waggles the open tub of butter in my face again and I look down into it. I see quite clearly that there are indeed owl droppings in the butter.

Cissa peers over to have a look too and jerks backwards almost immedietly.

"Ewww." Cissa exclaims, screwing up her nose in distaste. "That's nasty."

Penny just keeps on glaring at me.

I let out a breathe and say,

"I'll go buy some more tomorrow."

Penny's glare intensifies.

"I'll go buy some more _right now_." I correct myself quickly.

Penny nods stiffly, but continues to glare. I wrack my brain, trying to think of what I might have missed.

"I'll make sure Balt stays out of the fridge." I offer.

Penny still doesn't look pleased but she huffs again and mutters,

"You'd better, young man. And teach that son of yours to mind his smart mouth."

I know Penny doesn't really mean that. Penny actually loves that Leo is just as snarky as she is.

"I'm sorry Penny." I call after her as Penny stalks out of the room like a woman on a mission.

Cissa and I share of a look of amusement before I get up to go and buy some bloody butter.

"Can you get me some more Coco pops please Daddy?" Cissa asks. She bats her long, dark, eyelashes at me.

"Alright. But you better be in your pyjamas by the time I get back. It's getting late." I say sternly.

"Deal." Cissa says and she stands up on the sofa to wrap her arms around my neck and kiss my cheek.

Leo, having apparently heard the entire exchange from loitering outside the living room peaks around the doorway and says to me,

"Can I have some Cadbury chocolate for the train tomorrow?"

I fight back the urge to either laugh or cry once again and turn narrowed eyes on my son.

"Right, Leo, you and I are going to have a talk about some owl poop."

...

"Draco!" I hear my name being called by a familiar voice from across the station platform.

I turn my head to the left and see Hermione standing with Potter. Hermione waves at me, gesturing for me to join them. Oh sodding hell.

Leo catches sight of both Kassian and James at the same time and goes running off to meet them, dragging his trunk and Balt's cage along behind him. The three boys give each other fist bumps and high fives and weird back slap hugs that me and my friends at Hogwarts never did. Maybe it's a Gryffindor thing.

I push my way through the crowd of parents and children to reach Hermione. Potter looks up and locks eyes with me, as if his gaze is somehow naturally drawn to mine. I find myself, as always, unable to look away. There has to be something illegal about how intense Potters' stares are. They're almost indecent. Although that could just be me projecting a little bit.

Potter is wearing his Auror robes, which makes me feel weirdly underdressed in my faded jeans, blue wool-knit jumper and converses. Penny keeps saying I'm too old to wear converses, but I don't care. They're the most comfrotable shoes I've ever owned and my father would hate them to the depths of his soul. Which are two very good reasons to keep wearing them.

Potter doesn't look away from my face though, which is diconcerting and...oddly not, at the same time. I can't stop myself from thinking about the last time we spoke. Potter asked if we could be friends and I'd said 'maybe'. Merlin only knows what I meant by that.

I honestly don't know if Potter and I can be anything other than ex-enemies and semi-civil aqauntances. It's true that we haven't attacked each other yet, which is a good sign. But the fact that we've been able to not resort to violence, largely due to our childrens' presence, isn't exactly a ringing endorsement for a future friendship.

I need more than not wanting to punch one another in the face.

Hermione clears her throat very pointedly when Potter nor I say anything, despire our epic, and obviously incredibly mature, staring contest.

"Wow." Hermione says, clearly amused about something. "It's like sixth year all over again, except without the teenage boy angst."

That gets a reaction.

Potter releases me by switching his attention to Hermione. He doesn't look amused.

"That isn't funny." He says to her.

Hermione looks like she wholeheartedly disagrees on that point.

"Stop staring at each other like mutual stalkers then."

I can't even argue with her because we _were_ staring. And it did probably look really weird from her perspective. It felt weird from _mine_.

"Where's your other two pests, Potter?" I ask, before this can get any more awkward.

Potter locks his jaw stubbornly for a moment, like he might continue the argument with Hermione. But then Hermione gives him a raised eyebrow of judgement and he answers me instead,

"Lily and Al are with Molly. I have to go to work right after this, so it just made sense to let her have them for the day."

That does make sense. I left Cissa at home with Penny.

"Ah," I say, nodding solemly, "So when the train leaves you'll be off to save a dragon egg from bandits or protect old ladies from evil magic teapots or whatever it is you do."

"These days I mostly do paperwork and not much else." Potter admits, not sounding at all pleased about it.

"They're probably worried you'll break a nail or something equally horrific and the wizarding world will descend into chaos." I say drolly. "I can see the headlines now, 'The Great Harry Potter Has Stubbed His Toe Today So We Might As Well All Give Up And Die' or 'The Famous And Wonderful Harry Potter Has Received A Splinter In The Line Of Duty. Who Will Protect Us From The Non-existent Dark Lords Now?"

Hermione's eyes have widened and she looks worriedly at Potter like she thinks he might explode in response. But Potter doesn't explode. He just bursts out laughing.

"You're such a git, Malfoy." Potter says, shaking his head desparingly at me.

I shrug one shoulder.

"I bet it's true though. The Ministry is probably worried to lose you as their figurehead now that you're getting old."

Potter snorts.

"I am not _getting old_. I'm only thirty-five."

"Thirty-five _ **is**_ old when you're running around chasing down Dark wizards." I argue, mostly because it's funny to see Potter get all worked up.

"I have no problem chasing down _anyone_ , Malfoy." Potter huffs, crossing his arms over a chest that looks even broader in his Auror robes. His robes also add an edge of authority to Potter that makes me want to do something illegal just to poke at him.

"Once you've caught up to a criminal, how do you subdue them? Do you sit on them?" I ask, concealing a smirk.

Potter narrows his eyes at me.

"Oh, so, not only am I old, but now I'm fat as well?"

I give him a dissapointed frown.

"I'm not hearing a denial, Potter. For shame. Sitting on people is rude, you know, even if they are criminals."

Potter scoffs,

"I usually subdue criminals using this little thing called _magic_."

"Sounds lazy. I'm not very impressed so far Potter. No wonder they put you on desk duty." I say.

"I am not on desk duty. I was promoted. Being promited means less action and more paperwork." Potter snaps indignantly.

"Sitting on people got you promoted?" I ask in mock astonishment. "Oh, how the mighty Auror office has fallen."

"I do not _sit_ on people!" Potter's voice rises in volume quite significantly.

"Well, no, not anymore now that you've been promoted to sit on a desk chair instead." I press on before Potter can get any more flustered. "Is your desk chair a spinny one?"

"A _what_?" Potter sputters. His face is a bit red and even his hair looks angry.

"A spinny chair." I say calmly. "I have a spinny chair in my office. I quite like it."

There's a long pause where Potter just stares at me. He's panting a little bit, like he's trying very hard not to hex me where I stand. I smile at him. He glares back.

Then finally Potter heaves a massive sigh and says,

"I've changed my mind. I hate you again."

"I've always hated you." I say, still smiling happily.

This time Potter smiles in return.

Hermione makes a loud coughing sound to get our attention. Her gaze flickers between us, and there's a look on her face that's a mixture of amused and bewildered.

"You're both ridiculous." She says.

Yes, she's probably right about that one.


	9. Feeling the moment slip away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turning to face what you've become  
> Buried the ashes of someone  
> Broken by the strain  
> Trying to fill that space inside  
> Am I just like you?  
> All the things you do can't help myself
> 
> How do you feel when there's no sun?  
> And how will you be when rain clouds come?  
> And pull you down again  
> How will you feel when there's no one  
> Am I just like you?  
> All the things you do ...
> 
> Don't ever feel that you're alone  
> I'll never let you down  
> I'll never leave you dry  
> Don't fall apart  
> Don't let it go  
> Carry the notion  
> Carry the notion back, to me... to me  
> Feeling the moment slip away  
> Feeling the moment slip away
> 
> Feeling A Moment By Feeder

"Stay out of trouble, Leo." I say, kneeling down on the train platform so that I'm at face level with my son. I want him to feel the full power of my potential disappointment in his future actions. "I don't want to get a single letter this term from the Headmistress telling me that you've caused any more toilets to explode, or snuck out to the forbidden forest again, or turned the Longbottom girl into a pigeon, or got into any more fights with the Nott and Greengrass boys. I mean it. Try studying more or something. Or at least try not to get caught quite as much."

I mean, I know my son's a Gryffindor, but his lack of sneaking ability is ridiculous. I managed to break a hoarde of Death Eaters into Hogwarts when I was at school. I know that isn't exactly brag-worthy, but still. Even Potter, the Gryffindor golden boy, the worst liar in history, the most Gryffindor Gryf to have ever Gryffed, created a secret duelling club in fifth year and kept its existence hidden for months. I knew right then and there all those years ago that if Potter could be sneaky then anything was possible.

Leo makes a face at me, his nose screwed up and his eyes narrowed. It's his stubborn little brat face. I can recognise it easily by now.

"I only exploded one toilet and it was Weasley's fault for throwing around some of his Dad's exploding marbles. Me and James only went into the forbidden forest because Hagrid told us all about that time when you and Mr Potter got detention in your first year and about the giant spiders and the centaurs who can read the stars. Emma Longbottom got in the way of my spell, I was aiming for Nott. And I fight with Simon Nott because he's a tosser who says mean things to James about his Mum all the time."

Little shit has an answer for everything. They all do. It's infuriating.

"This isn't a debate, Leo." I say sternly. "No more detention letters or when you come home you'll find that your laptop has mysteriously disappeared and that it will stay gone for the foreseeable future. Got it?"

Leo grumbles half-heartedly, but he nods.

"Ok. Sorry, Dad."

I ignore his kicked puppy expression and pull him into one last hug before he has to get on the train. Despite being a bit angry with me, Leo still wraps his arms around my waist and hugs me back. We hold onto each other for a few, long, seconds. I squeeze him extra tight and then let go. Leo steps away, flashing me a big smile.

"Be safe. I love you." I say quietly, just loud enough for Leo to hear.

Leo flushes a bit in embarrassment, but he says,

"Love you too, Dad. I'll write you tonight when I get to school."

I feel a pang of something hot and stinging inside my chest. Leo knows how much I worry about him being so far away from me. I don't like the idea that I'm pushing my fears onto him, but it does help that he seems to understand why I like to hear from him so often.

I reach out and ruffle Leo's hair, which I know he hates. He slaps at my hand and backs away from me.

" _Dad_." Leo huffs. He tries to flatten down his now very messy hair. It makes me smile.

"Go on, the train'll be leaving in a few minutes." I say.

I can see that James Potter and Kassian Lovegood have already gotten on the train together. They're waving and shouting animatedly for Leo to hurry up and climb into their recently procured compartment. My son gives me a final indignant huff over my mistreatment of his hair before racing off to join his friends. James grabs onto Leo's hand to pull him inside the compartment.

I keep my eyes on Leo until the Hogwarts Express has fully left the station.

Harry comes up to stand beside me as we wave off our sons. When they're out of sight, he turns to me and says,

"Did you give Leo the 'stay out of trouble' lecture?"

I almost laugh at that.

"No, Potter. I gave him the 'don't get caught' lecture. Big difference."

Potter snorts, but he sounds more amused than anything.

"You would say that. Sneaky Slytherin."

I match his teasing tone.

"Better than being a blundering Gryffindor."

"Hey, your son _is_ a Gryffindor." Potter says.

"I know." I say, mock wistfully. "Where did I go wrong?"

"I feel your pain." Potter says. "I'm pretty sure that Albus is gonna be one of your lot."

"One of my lot?" I ask, arching one eyebrow in his direction. "You mean a perfectly reasonable human being with a penchant for self-preservation?"

"A little snake, yes." Potter says, his mouth quirked up at the corners.

"Well then, it seems we both failed miserably at this whole parenting lark." I say, spreading my hands out in mock despair.

"Apparently so, yeah." Potter replies. He nudges my arm with his elbow. "But at least we gave it a go."

"Was there ever any doubt that you would? Give parenting a go, I mean." I ask curiously. I always figured that Harry Potter was destined to get married to his Gryffindor hero girlfriend and have loads of future Gryffindor hero kids with her.

Potter shrugs one shoulder, his face creasing into something unreadable.

"Honestly? Before James I thought I couldn't be a father. I never had one of my own. Not really. What would I know about being a father to someone else?"

Ah. That actually makes more sense.

"I don't know." I say, frowning to myself. "The only time I've used the experience of my own father's parenting was to recognise what not to do with Leo and Cissa."

Potter nods in understanding.

"I did the same thing with the Dursley's. Although I don't think it takes a genius to know not to lock your kids up in a cupboard or starve them as a punishment for existing."

My full attention snaps over to Potter.

"They really did those things to you?" I ask. Wanting to know and not wanting to with equal measure.

There were rumours back in school. About Potter. No one really knew much about where he'd grown up before coming to Hogwarts. People liked to speculate. And gossip. The stories varied from 'he was raised by wolves' to 'Dumbledore kept him hidden in a secret safe house'. But the one rumour that kept coming around over and over again was that Potter was treated very poorly by whoever was raising him. I didn't know what to believe back then. But now, after all these years and all the time I've had to reflect on those days, I wonder how anyone could have missed the signs of Potter's abuse.

I don't know any details of course, and I'm not really sure I want to know either. The thought of someone hurting a small and basically defenceless child-Potter with those big green eyes of his full of sadness and pain, makes me irrationally angry. Potter and I may have never been friends, but he was still a big part of my life. He was still important. He is, even now, one of the few people in the world who I trust.

I know that sounds mad. How can you trust an enemy? Even an ex-enemy. But Potter is the exception to the rule and always has been. I trust him to be exactly who is and never anything less.

"Yeah." Potter says calmly, like the memory of his abuse means nothing to him now. Like he moved past it a long time ago.

But I know, better than most maybe, that just because something is buried deep doesn't mean it can't dig itself back up again. Because it's never really gone completely. There are echoes of it that live inside you. Those echoes lie in wait for the worst possible moment to reveal the cracks and unhealable scratches that you pretended to forget exist.

"Right." I say with equal neutrality. I have no right to feel indignant or enraged on Potter's behalf. The fact that I do anyway should tell me how important it is to keep my distance from Potter. He's the kind of person who can get under your skin without even trying. He got under mine when we were only eleven years old and I've lost hope of ever scraping him out. But just because I can't hide doesn't mean I can't run far enough away that it doesn't matter anymore where I am.

"You don't sound surprised." Potter says, and he frames it as a question.

"I'm a primary school teacher." I remind him. "In my job you learn to see how children behave and what that behaviour means about their lives at home. What gives them away isn't anything obvious. Most of the time it isn't obvious at all. But it is always there, if you know how to look for it."

"When I was at primary school there was one teacher, Miss Clover, who I think could see it." Potter tells me. "She never said anything. But sometimes she would look at me, just for a second or two, like I made her feel sad."

"She should have said something. Done something. Helped you." I say, scowling despite telling myself not to.

"Maybe." Potter concedes. "What about your parents? Is there anyone who should have helped you?"

"I didn't need help." I say derisively, thrown momentarily by the swift change of conversation.

Potter gives me a look like he doesn't quite believe me. He probably shouldn't.

I really don't know how my interactions with Potter keep getting to this place. To a place where I end up feeling exposed in the most intimate ways possible over things that are better left alone. Besides which, the train platform is hardly the ideal location for this kind of discussion.

Luckily for me the universe apparently agrees that this conversation between Potter and I needs to end because Hermione and Luna suddenly both appear out of the ether.

"Hey, Draco, are we still going for breakfast in town today?" Hermione asks me. Her intelligent eyes watch me and Potter with far too much understanding.

"Yes. Breakfast. Lets go do that. Now." I say instantly, internally grimacing at the eagerness in my voice. I don't want to actually sound like I'm running away from Potter.

Not that I am. Running away. I'm not running from Potter. I'm just slowly and strategically backing away from him like you would from a rabid Hippogriff. Or at least that's what you would do if you were a sane person and not Hagrid with a belt of dead forest vermin.

Potter gives me a look that borders on disappointed, but I don't care. I refuse to care. How dare he try to trick me into having emotions about him that don't begin and end with 'I don't like you or your face'.

"You're going to be late for work if you don't go now, Harry." Luna says, her expression surprisingly non-vacant for once.

"Shit." Potter curses, turning his wrist to look down at his watch with a scowl. He looks back up at us and says, "Kingsley will kick my arse if I'm late again."

Hermione nods and makes a sound of agreement.

"If you go now then you might just make it. I'll see you on Wednesday, yeah?"

Potter jerks his head distractedly.

"Yeah, see you Wednesday. Bye Luna. Malfoy?"

His voice lowers a few octaves on my name, causing me to look at him.

"What, Potter?"

"Are you around tonight?" Potter asks, his eyes piercing me to the spot like a caught butterfly.

"Around?" I ask, confused.

"Yeah. If I come by the Café after work, will you be there?" Potter asks a bit more slowly, like I'm an idiot for not naturally assuming that's what he meant.

I'm so thrown off by the question that I forget to lie.

"I'll be there." I say, because why the bloody hell wouldn't I be there, I _live_ there, not quite grasping the consequences of my answer yet.

"Ok, good. I'll see you later then." Potter says, sounding far too pleased with himself. Bastard.

Before I can make any form of protest, Potter is gone, vanishing with a crack of magic.

I find myself left standing there on the train platform, gaping like a guppy fish.

Hermione actually laughs, having clearly understood exactly what just happened. Potter wasn't going to let me escape from him that easily.

Even after all these years, neither of us likes to concede defeat if we can help it.

Yeah, well, bring it on Potter. Maybe this time I'll finally beat you at something.

...

Once Hermione eventually stops cackling, we go to a Café not far from the train station to have some tea and breakfast. The café we choose is a little battered, but it has a safe, homey feel that reminds me of home. There are blue checkered table clothes and pretty ornate lamps hanging from the ceiling and the smells coming from the kitchen are mouth wateringly good.

We sit down at a table in the far corner of the Café where no one will pay us any attention.

Hermione manages to wait until Luna has gotten up to go and order us some tea from the counter before giving me the most meaningful raised eyebrow I've ever seen. She crosses her arms and leans on the table. She's sitting opposite me. Probably so she can stare at me properly.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asks me. She looks genuinely concerned, which is somewhat of a surprise. I didn't expect concern. I expected mocking. Or a nonstop stream of nosy as fuck questions, knowing Granger.

"No." I say flatly. "Your best friend keeps tricking me into having intense conversations with him."

I expect her to ask me what Potter and I have actually been talking about that I consider 'intense conversation'. But she doesn't.

"Tricking you?" Hermione says sceptically. "How?"

"He...well he...you know how he..." I trail off, frustrated with myself for not being able to give an adequate answer. I eventually settle on a very pathetic, "He asks me questions."

"He asks you questions." Hermione says, watching me intently. "Have you considered just not answering them?"

No. No I have not. What is wrong with me?

"That's where the tricking bit comes in." I say, trying not to sound like I'm pouting and failing terribly.

"You sound ridiculous, you know that, right?" Hermione practically drawls. I didn't even know she could do that.

"I know." I say, sighing loudly.

"Good." Hermione says, teasing me. "Self-awareness is good."

"Shut up, Granger." I say. Which is admittedly not my best comeback.

"No _p_ e." Hermione says, smiling at me like she thinks I'm full of shit.

"You are not being very helpful here." I grouse.

"You haven't told me what I'm supposed to be helping with." Hermione says plainly. "If you don't want to talk to Harry, then don't."

"What if I do? Want to talk to him, I mean." I ask, just to be contrary.

"Then talk to him." Hermione says. She leans over a bit more on the table and pins me with a hard stare. "Look, Draco, you and Harry have a lot of history between you, I know that. When we were at school, I hated you. For obvious reasons. But you aren't the same person you were then. Hence the reason why we're now friends. The thing you need to understand is that _none of us_ are the same people we were back in school. We fought in a war. We did a lot of things that most kids our age would never have to do. But we were still just kids. It's been over a decade since the war. Since Hogwarts."

I narrow my eyes at her, not quite getting what she's trying to tell me without actually having to explain it.

Hermione reads me, recognises the confusion, and huffs out a frustrated breathe.

"What I'm saying, Draco, is that you aren't the boy who called me a mudblood and taunted Ron for being poor and went out of your way to fight with Harry. And Harry isn't the boy who refused your friendship and was oblivious to the harmful impact his actions could have on other people unless they were his friends and went out of _his_ way to fight with you. You've both changed in some really important ways. Harry moved past being the Boy Who Lived. You moved past being a Pureblood wizard. You and Harry both have jobs you care about, children you love, and wives you miss every day. All the things that stopped you two from getting on in school are no longer relevant."

Hermione reaches across the table and lightly touches my wrist. She meets my eyes steadily.

"So if you and Harry want to be friends, or...whatever, then...do it. Because this time around the only opinions that matter are yours and his."

I sit back in my seat and swallow hard. There's nothing but complete sincerity on Hermione's face.

Luna comes back to the table then, carrying a green tray. On the tray are three teacups and three mini tea pots, along with a few sugar packets and a small jug of milk. She sets the tray down on our table and sits opposite me next to Hermione.

"What are we talking about?" Luna asks into the slightly awkward silence.

Hermione slides me a questioning glance. There's a reason she waited until Luna was gone to talk to me about the Potter situation. She knows that even though I've gotten used to Luna, and have even found myself liking her quite a bit, I still don't feel comfortable discussing certain things around her. Hermione respects that because there are some things she doesn't like talking to anyone but me about either.

"I was asking Hermione how she got on with her date a few nights ago." I say, for two reasons.

One, because I really do not want to think about Potter anymore, and two because I genuinely was going to ask Hermione about her date at some point during breakfast today.

Hermione instantly blushes scarlet and turns a ferocious glare on me.

"Oh, you had a date?" Luna asks Hermione, her grey eyes full of delighted curiosity.

"Kind of." Hermione mutters. She slumps in her seat a bit and distracts herself from saying anything more by putting together her cup of tea.

"I take that it didn't go very well then?" I say, eyeing Hermione thoughtfully. I follow her lead and start making up my own drink.

Hermione goes to war with a particularly stubborn sugar packet whilst making various displeased faces at me.

"It wasn't quite as terrible as last time." She says.

"Considering the fact that your last date ended with Potter and your ex-husband coming to arrest the bloke you were out with for being part of an illegal Unicorn drug ring, I don't think that's saying much." I say.

Hermione grimaces.

"This one didn't get arrested." She says.

"Who was it?" Luna asks.

"Will Skylark." Hermione admits somewhat reluctantly.

Luna sucks in a harsh breathe and a look of distaste transforms her face from vacant to unmistakably tight and unhappy. But all she says is,

"William Skylark is a bad egg."

"If even Luna doesn't like him then he must truly be a cad of the highest order." I say, hiding a smirk behind my teacup. Although I'm not really joking. Luna very rarely shows open dislike for anyone. This Skylark bloke must have really done something to piss her off. He better not have hurt her. I may not understand Luna most of the time, but I know that she's a good and kind person. She doesn't deserve to be treated badly by anyone.

"This bloke didn't try to do anything to you on the date, did he?" I ask Hermione seriously. I purposely use the word 'try', because Hermione is more than capable of looking after herself, and everyone else besides.

Luna looks equally as displeased at the thought of this bloke doing something to her friend.

Hermione shakes her head, her expression softening in the face of both mine and Luna's genuine concern.

"Not really. He was just really obnoxious and rude the whole night, and then when we left the restaurant he got pushy about taking me back to my house. We both went home disappointed I guess." Hermione runs a hand down over her face and sighs. "Dating is a lot harder with strangers than it ever was with Ron."

I can't really comment on that side of things because I've only been in one relationship in my life and since Jamie died I haven't dated at all. I haven't even been interested in anyone else in the last five years. I might be a little worried about that if I had any desire to fall in love again. Good thing I really don't.

"I know it sounds like crap, but a lot of the easiness comes from just being with the right person." I say. "As hard as it is for me to admit, you were actually pretty lucky with Weasley. You'd known him since you were eleven years old. That's bound to make some parts of a relationship work smoother than it normally would."

"You deserve someone really special, Hermione." Luna says with meaning. She takes hold of Hermione's free hand and squeezes it.

Hermione smiles warmly at Luna, but she still looks fed up with it all.

"I'd settle for someone who doesn't make me want to punch myself in the face." She says.

"There's this bloke in work who I don't hate." I offer. "He's the deputy headmaster. I think he got divorced recently. I could try to set you up with him."

I'm not sure how I'd go about actually doing that. I've never set anyone up before. Would I need to show him a picture of Hermione first, or write out a bio for her? Hopefully he won't ask for references. I don't want to have that conversation with Weasley. I could ask Potter to do it maybe, just for the sheer comic value of seeing his reaction to such a request.

"You don't hate him." Hermione says caustically. "That's quite a ringing endorsement coming from you."

I shrug one shoulder.

"Well, he hardly ever talks to me apart from saying hello when we pass each other in the corridor. And when Jamie died he didn't show me any sympathy at all and instead just gave me extra time off of work. I like that in a stranger."

Hermione, however, does not appear impressed.

"I appreciate you trying to help, Draco, but I think I've been put off blind dates for life at this point." She says. Before I can argue, Hermione presses on with a small smirk that makes me nervous. " _You_ could give it a try though."

"Give what a try?" I scowl at her.

"Blind dating." Luna says, and she shares a conspiratory look with Hermione.

A painful spike of tension ripples to life inside me

"No." I say firmly.

"Seriously, Draco." Hermione says, the amused expression now gone and replaced with something a lot more terrifying. "I know quite a few people I could set you up with. There's this one woman, her name's Zara Quinn. She's a muggle, but her son Stephen is a Wizard. He started Hogwarts last year. Her partner left when he found out about the magic, so Zara pretty much raised Stephen by herself. She's funny and smart and very pretty. I think you'd really like her."

I push down the panic that threatens to choke me. It isn't Hermione's fault, I know she's just trying to help, but honestly the thought of going out with someone other than Jamie scares me in a way I don't know how to handle.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Draco." Luna says suddenly, her voice has gone light and silvery again. "No one is going to force you. But it might be nice for you to meet more people you can spend time with other than me and Hermione."

Merlin, she sounds just like Penny.

"Just think about it Draco." Hermione says softly. "And let me know if you ever want to set something up. It doesn't even have to be a date. It could just be a group outing kind of thing."

For fucks sake. First Potter wanting to be friends, now Hermione and Luna conspiring to get me a girlfriend. The Universe has officially gone off the deep end. Would it be too dramatic to say that I'm doomed?

...

Potter shows up around seven. I'm nervous as hell and trying really hard not to show it. Penny is upstairs with Cissa, watching some Disney movie about snarky princesses. I managed to escape that fate by going down into the Café to mop down the floor and clean the tables.

My primary school had an extra inset day so I start work again tomorrow. After my breakfast with Hermione and Luna I went into the school for a staff meeting. Some things needed to be sorted out before the new term officially began. There were the usual arguments and gossiping among colleagues. I tried my best to ignore both the arguing and the gossiping. Unfortunately I ended up losing my rag a little bit with my fellow form teacher, Mr Lewis.

Craig Lewis and I started working at F.H.A, Foxwood Hill Academy, at the same time. We were both young and had very little experience other than the schools we'd worked in during our teacher training. Other than that we couldn't have been more different in terms of personality and teaching styles.

Lewis is what some people would call 'old school' in his approach to teaching. He's also a bit of a yeller. I prefer to get more involved with the children and spend most of my time listening to them tell me how they want to learn. Personally I don't really mind how a child wants to learn to read as long as they're interested and excited about doing it.

During the meeting Lewis and I got into a 'spirited debate' over Ben, a child who is struggling more than most with his spell work. Lewis thinks Ben is just lazy, and the fact that he's somewhat of a smart mouthed trouble maker probably doesn't help. But after observing him closely for the last couple of months I think its possible that Ben might be dyslexic as he also struggles with reading and following written tasks.

I want to discuss with Ben's parents the possibility of getting Ben some additional help, but Lewis thinks it's not worth the effort. Since we both teach him it would be better if we agreed on something like this before taking it forward. I don't want to sit in a meeting with Ben's parents telling them their son might have dyslexia with Lewis sitting next to me saying he thinks I'm wrong. No parent likes being told their child is different, or that their child might be forced to face challenges that other children won't. If one teacher is saying something isn't right and another is saying there's no problem, then it's not rocket science to figure out who they'll want to listen to.

But I do want to help Ben. He's a sweet boy really, despite his rudeness and occasional mean streak. Ben reminds me of myself in a lot of ways. He's created a hard exterior to protect himself from being taunted for his academic difficulties. I can understand the need to feel safe behind mental walls of your own creation.

Sometimes I can't help but wonder if Severus Snape ever recognised parts of himself in any of his students. To be honest I think if he did then he would have given that child more hell than anyone else.

Potter knocks on the Café door to get my attention. I look up from wiping down the counter and wave him in as casually as I can manage. I finish cleaning the counter whilst Potter comes inside and makes his way over to me.

I go behind the counter to put a healthy bit of distance between us before looking at him directly.

"Malfoy." Potter says, tilting his head in greeting.

I return the polite nod.

"Potter." I say.

We have a bit of a stand off then. Neither one of us knows how to proceed. Which isn't really fair. Potter is the one who came to me. He should be the one with a plan of action.

"Do you want some tea?" I ask Potter, mostly because the bloody silence is getting to me.

"No." Potter says.

Well that's me tapped out for conversation. Great.

"I think I'll make myself some tea then-" I start to say, already half turning, but Potter interrupts.

"Do I really make you this nervous?" Potter asks. He watching me with that perceptive Auror stare of his that I have come to hate almost as much as I hate his stupid hair.

Merlin, I have always hated Potter's hair. When we were in school I used to look at him and wonder why the mighty chosen one couldn't afford to buy himself a bloody comb or something. It drove me a bit mad in my later Hogwart's years. There were times when I wanted so badly to just lick my hand and flatten down a stray lock of his black bird's nest. I spent an entire lesson in our fifth year staring at him because he looked like he'd quite literally walked through a hedge backwards. There was even a small leaf in his hair, the massive prat.

"You don't make me nervous." I say to Potter hotly. "You make me annoyed. And irritated. Because you are annoying. And very irritating."

Potter does that weird smiling thing at me, which just serves to make me angrier.

"Liar." Potter says, still smiling. "I mean, I know you think I'm annoying, but you're also nervous. I just don't understand why."

"You forgot irritating. I find you annoying _and_ irritating." I grumble.

"Malfoy." Potter says dryly. And he just keeps on looking at me.

Prat.

"Alright, Auror Potter, you called it. I'm nervous. Congratulations. Get your handcuffs out, I'll let you take me." I say, raising my hands as if readying them to be cuffed.

I don't realise until I see Potter's eyes blow wide and his cheeks flush a bit that what I just said could have another meaning entirely. I didn't mean it that way, of course, but that doesn't stop me from blushing at the implication.

I cannot believe that I just accidentally propositioned _Potter_ , however vague and unintentional it may have been. I haven't been this horrified and embarrassed since I was a teenager. Fucking hell.

"Uh." Potter says dumbly, his eyes still wide and staring at me. "We don't use handcuffs." He manages.

I nod once and try not to let on that it feels like my face is on fire.

"Well then I guess you won't be taking me this time."

If possible, Potter's eyes get even wider. Bloody hell, what is _happening_? I really, really need for the topic to change now. Or maybe I just need to shut up. Yep, shutting up sounds like a good plan.

"So..." Potter says, obviously grasping for ways to move on as soon as possible. "How was your breakfast with Hermione and Luna."

Aha, yes, Hermione is a safe topic for both us. Very good, Potter, very good.

"Good." I say. "Hermione told me about her latest date. Skylark."

"I've met him." Potter says, not sounding all too pleased about it either. "He's a pillock."

"That was pretty much Hermione's assessment as well." I say.

"Did you spend the entire time talking about Hermione's love life?" Potter asks, looking vaguely amused by the idea.

I shake my head.

"Not quite." I say. "Hermione and Luna also tried to talk me into going on a date with some woman Hermione knows from her job."

Potter makes a sympathetic face.

"Fleur and Katie tried to do the same thing to me at Ron's wedding last week." He comiserates.

"Well that was your own fault for voluntarily attending a social event." I say.

"True." Potter says. "It came out of left field though. I realised afterwards that they'd been hinting at it for weeks and apprently I'd agreed to meet this woman at some point. They probably asked me when I was distracted by work or the kids."

"Women, Potter." I say shaking my head. "They're evil geniuses."

"Reckon if Voldemort had been a woman then we'd all be living in the dark world right now?" Potter says.

I snort at him.

"Potter, if Voldemort had been a woman then she'd have knocked you off in first year like a sensible person."

"Voldemort gave it his best shot to be fair." Potter argues.

"Good thing no one ever asked _me_ to asassinate you." I say, and then wince, remembering suddenly who I was ordered to murder and what that death probably meant to Potter.

Potter eyes me seriously, but he doesn't seem pissed off, which is a small miracle.

"Do you think you would have? If he'd asked you to kill me."

Shit. What kind of question is that?

A valid one, maybe.

I think about when Voldemort gave me the task of killing Dumbledore and how, even though I was revolted and horrified by the order, there was a tiny part of me that was relieved. Because I'd been so afraid that Voldemort was going to ask me to give him Potter.

He wouldn't have asked me to kill him, I knew that, because Voldemort had made it clear that the act of Potter's murder belonged to him.

But I did fear that he would have concocted some plan involving me retrieving Potter for him. I was so terrified of that order, because despite my genuine hatred for Potter, handing him over to Voldemort was the one thing I truly thought myself incapable of.

I realised in that moment that I'd been unconciously thinking of Potter as my last hope. I told myself over and over again that nothing could save me and my family from Voldemort's wraith. But there must have been one small corner of my mind where faith in Potter existed. I hated it of course. That hope felt like acid being poured on an open wound.

But, in truth, Potter was no longer my enemy. He was a boy that I hated and at the same time wanted desperately to survive so that he could win the war.

"I don't know." I say, which is as honest as I can be.

Potter nods, as if he expected that response.

"You were a pretty rubbish assassin though." Potter says, smirking like a bit of a bastard.

"I'm not going to argue with you about my murdering skills." I huff, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at him.

"Nice to know there's one thing you won't fight me on." Potter says.

I roll my eyes and lean forward onto the counter top.

"Yeah, well, I've had enough of arguing with a bull-headed prat for one day as it is." I say pointedly.

Potter copies me by sitting on one the stools and leaning on the counter. He looks genuinely intruiged when he asks,

"You've been getting into fights with someone who isn't me?"

"Jealous?" I say.

"Very." Potter replies without hesitation.

I laugh then, and so does Potter.

"Who is it I need to fight to win back your antagonism?" Potter asks teasingly.

I sigh and look down at the counter for a few seconds before looking back up at Potter again. Only then do I realise how close our faces actually are. Weird. I think about backing up, but that would just be even odder. Besides I feel comfortable where I am. If Potter really starts to bother me I'll just have to shove him off his stool and onto the freshly cleaned floor. Sounds like a good, solid, plan to me.

I find myself, for Merlin only knows what reason, telling Potter all about the Ben situation. Even more surprising, Potter actually listens to me like he cares what my work related problems are. He seems genuinely interested in what I'm saying and appears to be siding with me in the argument.

"If you feel like Ben could really benefit from the extra support then I say screw this Lewis bloke." Potter says. "Have you spoken to the headmaster about talking to Ben's parents?"

I shake my head, causing a few locks of my overgrown fringe to fall into my eyes a bit. I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back. Potter's eyes follow the movement with an indescribable level of focus.

"Not yet." I admit, answering Potter's question. "Lewis just pissed me off so much that I knew if I went to the headmaster with the idea then I'd end up saying something stupid. The angry kind of stupid."

"Ah," Potter nods in understanding, "I've done plenty of that, especially when I first became an Auror. Auror training didn't quite knock it out of me."

"I'm surprised they even made you go through the usual Auror training program." I say honestly.

Potter's expression hardens into something cold and rigid.

"They tried to make me skip it, but I refused. I wanted to be an Auror because I was good enough, not because of one fight that I won based on luck more than skill."

"Of course. How devistatingly noble of you, the great Harry Potter, sir." I say, completely dead-pan.

Potter's face relaxes into a smile.

"Shut up, Malfoy."

I can't stop myself from smiling back at him.

"I think you'll find we were actually discussing _my_ problems today, Potter." I say, arching an eyebrow at him in mock scorn.

"Sorry, you're right, we were." Potter apologises. "Ok then, what's the worst case scenario if you talk to Ben's parents about his issues with or without this tosser Lewis."

I think about that for a minute and consider my answer.

"Worst case scenario if I set up some extra help for Ben without Lewis' support is that Lewis won't work with the changes we'll have to make to Ben's learning schedule. He might end up doing more damage if he constantly backtracks on the way I'm trying to teach Ben. If we're going to help Ben then the situation needs to be taken seriously."

"And you don't think Lewis will change his mind?" Potter asks.

I snort derisively.

"Lewis has hated me from day one, he'll probably go out of his way to cause problems if I try to push this."

"Hated you from day one." Potter says. "Why? Did you refuse to shake his hand or something equally heinous?"

"Too soon, Potter. Still too soon." I drawl.

Potter looks annoyingly pleased with himself.

"Sorry. Want me to turn your new school arch nemesis into a frog or something?"

"No, thank you." I say, wrinkling my nose. "There's far too much kissing involved in that spell."

Potter makes a sound of agreement.

We bicker back and forth for a while after that. It feels more natural to just hang around with Potter than it logically should.

Albus and Lily are staying with their grandmother for the night so neither of us watch the clock too avidly.

When Potter does eventually mention going home I think we're both shocked to discover that quite a few hours have passed. It's close to one o' clock in the morning.

At some point Cissa came down stairs to say goodnight to me and then a bit later Penny did the same. She gave me and Potter a knowing look that I decided to ignore. I don't know what she meant by it anyway.

"I better get off to bed, Potter. I have school in the morning." I say.

"Yeah, I'll be dead on my feet tomorrow if I stay up much later." Potter says, frowning. "I used to be able to stay awake all night and then go to work all day without feeling even a bit tired. These days I need five hours of sleep minimum."

I smirk at him.

"Like I said before, that's because you're old now."

"I'm not _old_ , Malfoy." Potter growls.

"You keep living in denial, Potter." I say.

Potter looks very much like he wants to poke his tongue out at me. He doesn't.

"So, are you going to take Hermione up on her idea to go out on a 'group date' or whatever?" Potter asks, eyeing me intently.

The question catches me off guard.

"I don't know." Which is a lie. There's nothing in this world that could convince me to go along with-

"Ok, well, I've actually given in to the pressure." Potter admits, interrupting my train of thought. "Sort of. I'm going out with the girl, Erin I think her name is, that Fleur and Katie introduced me to at the wedding. I caved so they'd stop bugging me. I invited Erin to the cinema this weekend. I was already going with Hermione, Luna, Neville and Hannah anyway. So its not really a date."

I just stare at Potter. Feeling too many things at once to respond straight away.

"You could come...if you want." Potter says, sounding...hopeful?

No. That can't be right. I must be reading him wrong.

"I don't know if...uh..." Shit. Shit. Shit. What do I say? What do I _want_ to say?

"You don't have to answer right now." Potter says, forcing a casual shrug.

"Ok." I manage to choke out.

"Right. Ok then." Potter says, nodding to himself a bit too vigorously. He smiles at me, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I'll see you...when I see you, Malfoy." Potter blinks at me for another few seconds before sliding off his stool and striding out the front door.

I stare after him, feeling an odd mixture of relief and disappointment at his departure.

What the sodding hell is going _on_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading and to all the humans who commented and left kudos you people are epic pieces of marshmellowy goodness. xxx


	10. 'Cause it's you and me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the things that I want to say just aren't coming out right  
> I'm tripping on words  
> You got my head spinning  
> I don't know where to go from here
> 
> 'Cause it's you and me and all of the people with nothing to do, nothing to prove  
> And it's you and me and all of the people  
> And I don't know why I can't keep my eyes off of you
> 
> Something about you now  
> I can't quite figure out  
> Everything she does is beautiful  
> Everything she does is right
> 
> 'Cause it's you and me and all of the people with nothing to do, nothing to lose  
> And it's you and me and all of the people  
> And I don't know why I can't keep my eyes off of you
> 
> And me and all of the people with nothing to do and nothing to prove  
> And it's you and me and all of the people  
> And I don't know why I can't keep my eyes off of you
> 
> What day is it?  
> And in what month?  
> This clock never seemed so alive
> 
> You And Me By Lifehouse

_Five Years Ago_

_"We need to get Leo a new school jumper." Jamie says to me from across the table. Her green cat eyes practically glow in the candlelight of the restaurant._

_It's Saturday night and we're in the middle of one of our official twice a month dates. Last year Jamie and I realised we were arguing a lot more than usual. It didn't take us long to figure out the reason why we were sniping at each other all the time was because we weren't spending any time together just the two of us._

_Life can very easily fall into a pattern, especially when you have a full time job and two children. Going on actual dates kind of goes out the window after your first child and basically becomes a mythical event after your second._

_Jamie and I spoke to Penny about our problem and she immediately insisted on setting up a schedule of sorts. I know it doesn't sound very romantic, but honestly, after about seven years of marriage and two children you have to plan shit. If you don't plan and schedule time together, it just won't happen. There's always something else to do._

_So after a lot of talking between me, Jamie and Penny, we came up with the Two Dates Per Month deal. I felt a bit guilty about it at first, leaving Penny at home with two very young (and bloody loud) children. But it really did help, and getting to be alone with Jamie is worth pretty much anything._

_Jamie stabs her fork through a mini carrot and eats it. The carrot I mean, not the fork. Although that would have been more impressive._

_I tell Jamie that and she raises a dark eyebrow at me._

_"If I ever decide to join the Circus then that can be my act." She puts on a much deeper, announcers, voice and says, "Welcome to the stage Jamie Malfoy: The Amazing Fork Swallower."_

_I snort into my glass of water mid-drink and some of it dribbles out of my mouth. I wipe the water off my chin, face reddening._

_"People would come from far and wide to gaze upon such pure talent." I say, completely deadpan._

_Jamie grins at me._

_"Hmmm, yes, and then I would meet a big lion tamer named Tiberius Blade and run off with him to an exotic island."_

_"Tiberius Blade?" I scoff. "Sounds like a right tosser."_

_Jamie muses over this for a second before saying,_

_"Well I do seem to have a thing for tossers." She smiles slyly at me._

_"I'm glad you made an exception for me then." I say._

_"Yep." Jamie bobs her head in a nod. "I settled for a git instead."_

_My mind brings up the image of a boy with ridiculous hair and vivd green eyes full of the kind of passionate rage that only lives inside those who have known true cruelty. Those who have known loss and pain. Rage sparked by an almost unnatural source of bravery._

_**"Scared Potter?"** _

_**"You wish."** _

_Then there are screamed curses and hot blood and constant pain and a never ending state of despair. I hear Aunt Bella laughing. I see my father's face turn ashen and afraid. I smell the stench of dead bodies rotting in what was once my home. I feel the cold press of my mother's hand as I clutched it against my cheek, before the Aurors took her body away to be burned. She turned to ash alongside those who had terrorised us._

_Jamie touches my wrist gently and says,_

_"Draco, come back."_

_I blink rapidly at her for a long time before snapping myself out of it. I flush with embarassment. Even after all these years, sometimes all it takes are a few words to throw my mind into turmoil again. When I turn a corner or open a long forgotten door, the shadows that follow me strike._

_I feel the reminants of shame and embarassment coil in my stomach. I call myself weak, even though I know intellectually that the memories I live with would haunt most people. I hate that my past still has the power to effect my present. I hate that I'm reduced to being the scared teenage boy I once was so easily._

_But Jamie has a way of looking at me without any sign of pity. She takes my hand and threads our fingers together on the table. Then she turns my hand over to lay flat, palm up, and grasps hold of my wrist. She presses two fingers against my pulse point._

_I copy her, taking hold of Jamie's wrist and counting the beats of her pulse. Her hand is warm and rough from years of working in the Cafe. There's a scar on Jamie's left palm from where she cut herself with a cake knife a few years ago. The scar is about three centimeteres long and starkly white. I think I've kissed that scar a million times._

_Jamie's skin is far darker than mine, which isn't saying much considering how naturally pale I am. Jamie's father was originally from Spain, so prehaps that 's where Jamie's smooth, caramel complextion comes from. I've never actually seen Jamie's father. Penny didn't keep any photos of him. I asked Jamie once if it bothered her, not even knowing what her father looked like. Jamie told me she knows that he left Penny pregnant and alone and never came back, and that's all she ever needs to know. She said it with such admamant resolve that I knew she meant every word._

_I let the monotonous counting of Jamie's heartbeats relax me enough that I don't feel like I'm drowning anymore. Once I'm steady again, another form of wariness and ebarassment takes hold of me. I almost dart my eyes around the resteraunt to see if anyone is staring at us, but Jamie locks gazes with me and I'm unable to focus on anything other than her. She watches me with a kindness that is almost brutal._

_Jamie doesn't understand what I've seen or done or experienced, not really. But she's never judged me for anything I've told her, and she always listens, even when she doesn't get what I'm talking about. It's enough for me that just being with her calms me down._

_Maybe if I'd fallen in love with a witch, or even a squib, it would be easier for me to explain the moments when I lose myself to the past. Jamie isn't easy, and neither is our relationship most of the time. But I would choose her every single time if given the chance._

_I try for a moderately not-pathetic smile and say,_

_"Why the bloody hell does Leo need another new school jumper? That's the third one this month he's destroyed."_

_Jamie laughs in the face of my honest indignation. If there is such a thing as souls, Jamie's laughter makes mine sing._

_"He used his last jumper as a football on a field that was wet and muddy from the rain." Jamie says. "The one before that was flung into the road and run over by a bus. The latest jumper was lost out the window on the M4 after being used as a makeshift 'flag'."_

_"We need to get child locks for the windows. Do they do those?" I ask. My knowledge of muggle electronics is still pretty basic. Mostly because I go out of my way to avoid it. Despite my loss of magical ability, I still feel like a clueless Pureblood wizard when I try to use an IPhone or a computer or a washing machine. That last one is the bane of my existence, I swear. There are too many compartments in the little drawer. And the box of powder lies about how much you should put in. I'm almost ninety percent sure that it's some kind of clothe shrinking conspiracy created by pixies. Jamie and Penny just laugh at me when I try to argue with them about it._

_"Yeah they do." Jamie informs me, still smiling like I've amused her in some way. "But we'd have to buy a whole new car."_

_"Well, I was planning on winning the lottery this week, so, perfect timing." I say drolly._

_Jamie laughs again and my smile becomes more genuine._

_Later, when we've finished our meals, Jamie takes me to the bar where she occasionally plays the piano. It's a smallish place hidden down a side road. Only locals really come here. I'm not usually one for clubs or bars most of the time, but I like this one. 'The Falling Star' is dark and intimate and lit only by different coloured lanterns scattered around the main room. The dance floor takes up a large part of the space. There's a stage up front and a bar in the back._

_Jamie and I are dancing to the inhouse band's version of Lifehouse's song 'You And Me'. Jamie has her arms looped around my neck and I'm holding her close, my own arms around her waist. We're perfectly in sync with one another, the smooth rhythm of the song guiding us. Our eyes are locked, and I feel like I could stay here, in this one moment, for the rest of my life._

_"I love you, you know." I tell her in a hushed whisper. "I really do."_

_Jamie's mouth curves upwards, her eyes lighting up the room brighter than any lantern ever could. She goes up on her tip-toes to sweetly kiss the corner of my mouth._

_"You're my fallen star, baby." Jamie whispers teasingly against my mouth._

_We both laugh as I spin her around the dance floor._

_Two days later Jamie is leaving 'The Falling Star' after a performance when she crosses the road and is hit by a car._

_Both Jamie and the driver died instantly._

* * *

There have been times in my life when I've wished that we could experience alternative realities. At a crucial point where a decision has to be made. Like I could live through one version and then another. One reality with an emotional, instinctive reaction, and another reality where I use the logical side of my mind to solve the problem, or deal with the situation.

Every single day we make decisions and choices that shape ourselves, our lives and the lives of the people around us. Some choices are easy, others are far more difficult. Some decisions are, or seem, unimportant, others are monumental and have the power to make or break you with devastating consequences either way.

I did things during my teenage years that I would change if I could. I look back on those moments and think about how I could have handled them better. I tell myself not to dwell on the past, because as the self-help books and Hollywood films have taught us, you can't change it. Unless you're Harry Potter and on a mission to save a giant murderous chicken apparently.

"I told you about that already, didn't I?" I say to Jamie. "Potter told me the whole stupid story. I still can't believe that Hermione spent our entire third year running around time travelling. I _really_ can't believe that _Potter_ got to bloody time-travel. I _do_ definitely believe that he used his chance to time travel to save the chicken assassin who tried to kill me. That's exactly the kind of thing he would do. Prat."

I technically don't get a response from Jamie, but I can imagine her sitting across from me with that sardonic smirk on her face that I loved so much. I can easily hear her taking the piss out of me for feeling left out of an adventure I would have had no interest in being a part of.

A brisk wind blows past, making me shiver slightly and pull my grey pea coat tighter around myself. I run a hand through my hair, pushing it back off my face, when the chilling breeze threatens to force the loose strands to poke me in the eye. By the time I leave the cemetery today my hair will probably be able to compete with Potter's in the hedgehog category.

I'm sitting in front of Jamie's grave with a lap full of blue daisies. The first flower I ever gave Jamie was a blue daisy.

It was the day after our first date to the Cinema and I was terrified that I'd mucked it up and that there was no way Jamie would ever want to go out with me again. I imagined all kinds of nightmare scenarios where she would avoid me or insist that I move out. The thought of leaving the flat, the Cafe, struck me like a physical blow. It was the first place where I'd felt even remotely safe in years.

Logically I knew Jamie would never be that cruel. She was my friend if nothing else. But fear is like a particularly brutal disease. It digs in deep and spreads too fast.

I was out for a run that morning. Running was something I'd started doing only recently. Jamie suggested it, to help me clear some of the cobwebs out of my head before the day officially started. I was sceptical about the idea at first, I didn't see how running around the local park would help me feel less...worn. Tired. Tired of being miserable. Tired of hating myself. Just so fucking tired all of the time.

But weirdly, it did help. Running around in the early hours of the morning, not thinking, only concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. It allowed me to unlock a different level of calm, even peace. For about an hour and a half every day I felt content in a way I couldn't remember ever feeling before.

That morning after The Date That Broke My Brain, I ran around for close to two hours trying to find that relaxing, centered place inside my head. I failed. Epically. And then I got angry. Because, in case you didn't know, I'm kind of a tosser like that.

I basically lost my shit in the middle of a park like a lunatic. 'Like a lunatic', ha! I was a lunatic. _Am_. The war and Voldemort and the Ministry and Harry _bloody_ Potter saw to that.

I kicked a bench. Because my instinctive reaction to being upset is apparently to become a fucking idiot for exactly ten seconds. And then spend the rest of my life regretting those ten seconds.

The bench lived and walked away without injury. My foot, however, was not best pleased with the outcome of my decision making process.

I yelped in pain and jumped around for a solid three minutes cursing. I cursed myself, the bench, my entire _life_...it was a dramatic moment for me, I'll admit. Luckily I was out so early that there were no other people around, otherwise someone might have made a call to the local pysch ward to check if they were missing a patient.

Eventually I sat down on the victorious bench and hunched over with my head in my hands. I felt the crushing weight of defeat and it burned to realise that all the progress I thought I'd made since I met Penny and Jamie was worth nothing, meant absolutely nothing. Because when things got hard I reverted back to my old angry and broken self without even thinking about it.

I'd been given my first test and I'd failed. It hurt to acknowledge that fact. It hurt to realise that I would probably always be damaged, that the things I'd survived would hold me down, press my face into the dirt, and whisper icy, barbed words into my ear for the rest of my life.

In that moment I felt so god damn helpless that I couldn't fathom ever moving again. It took too much energy just to _breathe_ , let alone do anything else.

I don't know how long I sat on that park bench. It might have been ten minutes or it might have been over an hour. Time seemed to slip away until all I could concentrate on was each and every inhale and exhale, each and every rise and fall of my chest as I struggled not to panic.

I almost shat myself when a hand touched my shoulder.

My head whipped up and I turned to stare at whoever thought it was a good idea to touch a seething young person sitting on a park bench at seven o'clock in the morning.

I bit back the harsh words that burned my tongue when I saw that the hand touching my shoulder was attached to an old woman. The woman was quite clearly homeless with bedraggled grey hair partially hidden by a thatched hole-filled hat, a weathered and wrinkled face softened by warm brown eyes. She was dressed in layers of tattered clothing. Most notably she was wearing a large green overcoat with massive pockets that looked like they were full of what I would call 'random crap'.

"Hello." I said to the old woman, trying not to sound as ripped apart as I felt.

The old woman smiled at me and said with surprising coherency,

"You look like my son."

"I'm not your son." I said, slowly, carefully, because my time living on the streets taught me a fair amount of tact.

The old woman thwacked me on the shoulder.

"I know that lad, I haven't lost all my marbles just yet." She said. "I just meant that you look like he did when he came home that last time."

"Came home from where?" I asked, because the situation was just strange enough not to feel strange whilst it was happening.

A deep sadness filled the old woman's large, whiskey coloured eyes.

"He came home from war, lad." She said wistfully. "He came home, but not really. Not all of him. I think he left part of himself over there."

Pinpricks of understanding twisted and stabbed inside my chest.

"Maybe what he left behind was too heavy to bring back." I said.

Some of the old woman's sadness receded and she squeezed my shoulder gently.

"Is that how it is for you, lad?" She asked.

"No." I said. I thought about my anger and self hatred and the fear of rejection I felt deep in my gut. "I kept everything."

The old woman peered at me, bringing her face very close to mine. Her gaze was steady and far too knowing.

"Might be time to let some of that old stuff go, lad."

"I don't know how." I whispered, my voice sounding a bit hoarse and scratchy. Too emotional. Too honest. Too everything.

The woman smiled at me again, flashing teeth. She leaned away from me and started to dig around inside the pocket of her large overcoat. I watched her in absent confusion until she finally pulled out a small bag. The old woman settled again and pushed the bag into my hand.

I looked down at the bag. It was a bag of flower seeds.

"You let go of the past by grabbing hold of the present with both hands." The old woman said. She tapped the bag with one finger. "Plant a seed and help it grow."

I felt something then, a release of air from inside my chest. It was painfully close to relief.

I took the old woman, who's name I later found out was Sadie, back to the Moon Cafe. I made her a cup of tea. She told me I was terrible at making tea. Penny agreed with her. They laughed. I felt very offended. Jamie kissed me on the cheek and told me she had a great time on our date. I shoved a bagful of seeds at her. Instead of looking at me like I'd lost the plot, Jamie took the seeds and insisted on planting them in one of Penny's flower boxes.

By the time Jamie and I went out on our nineteenth date, the flower box was filled with blue daisies.

I found out a lot more about Sadie in the years that followed. Her son, Davey, killed himself a few years after he was discharged from the military. After her son's death, Sadie struggled to move forward. She was alone without any other family and that made it even harder.

It turned out that she wasn't homeless. She actually owned a flower shop not far from the Moon Cafe called 'Seeds of the Galaxy'. But when her son died, Sadie shut up her shop and started sleeping in the nearby park. Grief made her lose her mind for a while, she told me. She said it was too hard to sleep in the same place where Davey died.

Jamie and I spent our free time for the next few months cleaning and redecorating Sadie's abandoned flower shop. She refused to go back at first, but I managed to coax her into it eventually. We became quite close. She was my first real friend other than the Moons.

Sadie died in the same year as Jamie. I think, if I believed in things like fate, then that would mean something to me.

"I really need to talk to you." I tell Jamie's headstone. I pick off one of the blue petals in my lap and rub it between my thumb and forefinger. "It would be a lot easier if you were actually here. But, if you were here, then I wouldn't be going out on this stupid group date thing anyway."

Silence.

Then I hear the sound of birds chirping quite angrily. I turn around and see a blackbird and a dove battling it out in mid-air. I watch them fight for a few minutes before turning back to Jamie.

"Yeah, you heard that right." I bark out a laugh. "I don't know how it happened, but I am going on a honest to Merlin _group date_. I blame Potter."

I talked myself in and out of accepting Potter's invitation about a million times before finally agreeing to go. At first I thought it wouldn't be so bad. I could just stick to Hermione and Luna, two people who I do genuinely enjoy being around. I reasoned it might even be fun to watch Potter try to flirt with his 'date'. I honestly cannot imagine what Potter's version of flirting would involve. I really can't imagine what dating Potter must be like. Frustrating, probably. I mean, it's _Potter_. I'm surprised Ginny Weasley never offed the prat for the sake of her own sanity.

Just as I'd warmed to the idea of a group outing though, Hermione informed me that she'd invited that woman 'Zara'. Hermione told me there was no pressure and that she only invited Zara as a friend. Even so, I felt like a fist was squeezing my lungs and cutting off my air supply.

I managed to calm myself down in the days leading up to it, but tonight is the night and that same choked, panicked, feeling is back in full force.

I went out for a walk to try and clear my head. I didn't mean to end up in the cemetery with an armful of blue daisies. But talking to Jamie, even if she can't respond, can sometimes help me put things into perspective.

"If you can hear me from wherever you are, I know you'll be laughing your arse off right now." I say. "In all the years we were married, we never went out on a group date."

Because I don't like people. To be fair, Jamie wasn't all that keen on most people either. That's one of the reasons why we worked so well together. We were equally distrustful and anti-social and apathetic towards the rest of humanity. Neither of us saw the point in having a big group of friends. We had each other and our family. At the time, that felt like enough.

Now, though, I'm beginning to wonder if we cut ourselves off a bit too much.

"I'm not sure if I'm ready for this, Jay." I murmur. My chest tightens and I force myself to suck in a laboured breath. "But it's been five years, and I'm starting to realise that I need other people in my life." I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, fighting back a stinging sensation that would most likely lead to unwanted tears. "I'm not looking to fall in love, because I had you and no one will ever be...you. So I'm gonna try this having real friends thing and see what happens, ok?"

Silence.

Then the pro fighting dove drops down onto Jamie's head stone and chirps at me. I tear off a few petals and hold my hand out to the bird. The dove eyes me for a few seconds before swooping down to steal a couple of blue petals from my hand. I watch as the dove flies off back to the willow tree that stands not far from Jamie's grave.

After a few steady breaths, the dove is back, and it's not alone this time. The dove and his previous enemy the blackbird are now sitting on Jamie's head stone. They both chirp at me before settling down together, cuddling as close to one another as they can.

Birds apparently do not hold grudges. Good to know.

I wait a few more heartbeats, just watching the two birds together. Then I place the blue daisies on Jamie's grave and push myself up off the ground. I stare down at Jamie's head stone, and at the words carved so neatly into it.

**_Jamie Lucinda Malfoy_ **

**_1979-2010_ **

**_Beloved Daughter, Mother and Wife._ **

**_"You can't always get what you want, but if you try, sometimes you might find you get what you need" _-The Rolling Stones__ **

"I love you, you know." I whisper. One breath. Two.

Silence.

The dove and the blackbird start to sing.

I walk away.

...

Zara Quinn is beautiful. Intimidatingly so. With her long, silky black hair, smoky dark eyes, curvy waist, and exotic Asian features, she steals all the attention in the surrounding area.

My first thought when I see her is that I'm so glad I have no interest in dating anyone romantically, because just the thought of trying to impress a woman who looks like Zara Quinn makes me internally cringe.

Zara and I are actually the first to arrive at the agreed meeting spot outside the Cinema. I only know it's her because when she catches sight of me she waves and smiles at me in greeting. I suppose she could have been Potter's sort-of-date 'Erin', but Hermione told me that Erin is blond.

I go over to Zara and try my best to not-grimace at her. Some apprehension must show on my face though, because Zara's smile turns sympathetic.

"You got tricked into going on this Totally Not A Date date too, huh?" Zara says after we've introduced ourselves properly.

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my coat and try desperately to decide how close I should stand to Zara. I mean, we're strangers, but we aren't at the same time. I really hate this part of socialising with other human beings. There are so many invisible lines and secret rules you're just supposed to somehow _know_.

I shrug.

"Potter wanted some back up."

"Ah, so you were emotionally blackmailed into it. Nice." Zara says, nodding along as if that makes actual sense.

"How did you end up on this non-date then?" I ask her, beginning to feel a bit less awkward. Mostly because Zara seems completely non-plussed about the entire situation. It makes me feel better that Zara apparently isn't expecting anything more out of this than I am.

"I owed Hermione a favour and she said something about me being a buffer between you and her best friend." Zara explains.

I gape at her.

"A buffer? What is that supposed to mean?"

I think I might be shrieking a little bit. Damn.

Zara seems to realise she's put her foot in it and quickly adds,

"Hermione also told me I'd get to meet a really sweet bloke with great cheek bones."

I can't decide whether to fall over laughing or call Hermione to shout at her down the phone.

"Granger actually used the word 'sweet' to describe _me_?" I ask, pointing at myself.

Zara makes a face of consideration.

"I'm starting to think she was being sarcastic about that part." But then Zara smiles brightly and says, "The cheek bones thing is definitely true though."

I fight off the burn that threatens to make my face turn red.

What the bloody hell am I even doing here? Why would I subject myself to this crap? I blame Potter. For everything. Ever. Always.

"This was a terrible idea." I groan.

"Probably." Zara agrees easily.

"Should we make a run for it before anyone else shows up?" I suggest, more than half serious.

Zara seems to actually consider it for a full five seconds before shrugging helplessly.

"If we run away you know we'll never hear the end of it from Hermione."

I make a sound of displeasure even as I concede that she's right. Hermione can be like a pit-bull with a bone sometimes. Better, and safer, just to go along with what she wants. Only a fool would tempt the Granger wrath.

"Alright fine." I say, sighing. "But for the record, I only came here tonight to take the piss out of Potter."

"Sounds like a good time to me." Zara says, flashing me a genuine grin.

Ok, I'll give Hermione points for her good taste in friends, but that's all. I still mostly want to yell at her.

No more than five minutes later Hermione arrives with Luna and Erin. Erin is tall and willowy with curly golden blond hair and cornflower blue eyes that look almost purple in this light. She's prettier than I expected.

Neville and Hannah Longbottom turn up next. Neville shakes my hand steadily, meeting my eyes without any signs of flinching. He doesn't seem bothered by my presence at all. I make a mental note to apologise for being a bastard to Neville for all those years at school. His wife Hannah smiles warmly at me and then she shares a conspiritorial look with Hermione. I won't proclaim to know much about women, but I do know that when they start giving each other suggestive looks about something that clearly involves you, it means you're definitely screwed.

Potter shows up last looking like he just played an intense game of Qudditch. Or jumped out of an aeroplane without a parachute. His hair looks even more ridiculous than usual, and I have to clench my hands into fists to stop myself from reaching out to fix it at least a little bit. I wonder if Ginny Weasley spent half her time flattening down her husband's hair before going out in public.

It isn't just Potter's hair that has him looking like he's spent the last few days on the run and sleeping under a bridge. Potter's clothes don't help his case either. He's wearing dark jeans with massive holes at the knees, a fitted black t-shirt with a faded AC/DC logo on the front, a well-worn black biker jacket, and he has on the same big leather boots I saw him wearing at Christmas. Clearly Potter's dress sense has not improved since he was at school. At least this stuff actually fits him though.

Everyone is dressed in muggle clothing tonight. No robes in sight.

I had a brief moment of panic trying to decide what to wear tonight, which made me feel like an idiot. I kept telling myself it wasn't a real date, and that even if it had been, I was too old to give a shit about clothes.

In the end I settled on light grey jeans, a fitted grey jumper overtop a white button down, and a pair of brown boots.

When Penny found me dithering over which socks to wear she laughed so hard that she fell over. Ben had to pick her up off the floor. He came over to help Penny babysit Cissa.

Ben is a big man with eyes even darker than his skin. His family was originally from Nigeria, but they moved over to England when his father got a job here. He's a kind-hearted, but pragmatic man. He treats Penny like gold, and they seem to truly enjoy being around each other.

I might have worried that me going on a kind-of-but-not-really date would be a problem for Penny, but Penny and I already had that discussion a long time ago. She was actually the one to bring it up. I won't lie and say it wasn't awkward. But Penny told me that she would always consider me to be her son no matter what. She told me she just wants me to be happy. I felt immensely grateful to her in that moment, for reaffirming the strength of our relationship.

"Hey Malfoy." Potter says, coming to stand next to me.

We've moved inside the Cinema now. All the others are gathered around the sweet and popcorn counters choosing their movie treats. I'm leaning against the opposite wall with my arms crossed, waiting.

"Potter." I drawl. "Good of you to finally show your face. I was starting to think you were going to stand us all up."

"No chance, Malfoy." Potter says, a spark of mockery in his eyes. "I would never pass up the opportunity to see you use your oh so smooth Slytherin dating moves."

The left side of my mouth quirks up slightly against my will.

"Likewise Potter." I say. "I'm looking forward to seeing what passes for good dating etiquette among Gryffindors."

Potter shrugs one shoulder languidly.

"This isn't a real date." He says. "I've been coerced. Doesn't count."

"Oh, but it counts as a real date for me even though you tricked me into coming?" I say with a snort.

Potter raises a mockingly innocent eyebrow at me.

"It's called _asking_ , Malfoy. I _asked_ you to come. Your standards for trickery have seriously lowered if you consider me asking you out a form of manipulation."

I stare at Potter until he seems to realise what he just said. His eyes widen in a humorous kind of horror.

"I didn't mean-I-well-uh...shut up, Malfoy." Potter snaps, his cheeks going pink from embarrassment. Good. That's exactly what I came here for. That and absolutely nothing else.

Right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading! x
> 
> Don't worry, the Sort Of Kind Of Ish date will continue in the next chapter! xx
> 
> A few notes-A/N-
> 
> 1-So sorry for taking so long to get this chapter out. I am a crappy humany thingy. I know. Please forgive me.
> 
> 2-I don't know if you all think I'm spending too much time focusing on Jamie and Draco's relationship. What I'm hoping to convey is that Jamie was a very important part of Draco's life and his development as a person. He wouldn't be who he is in my story without her. Also, as many of you probably know, grief is a process that has no end. It changes and shifts, but it's always there in some form. This story is technically a love story for Draco and Harry, but for me it's mainly a story about Draco. Romance is only a part of it.
> 
> 3-I make no apologies for the very in your face bird symbolism in this chapter. ;) x


	11. Lies were all the empty things disguised as me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stranger than your sympathy  
> And this is my apology  
> I'm killing myself from the inside out  
> And all my fears have pushed you out  
> And I wished for things that I don't need  
> (all I wanted)  
> And what I chase won't set me free  
> (it's all I wanted)  
> And I get scared but I'm not crawlin' on my knees
> 
> Oh, yeah  
> Everything's all wrong, yeah  
> Everything's all wrong, yeah  
> Where the hell did I think I was?  
> And stranger than your sympathy  
> I take these things, so I don't feel  
> I'm killing myself from the inside out  
> And now my head's been filled with doubt
> 
> It's hard to lead the life you choose  
> (all I wanted)  
> And all your luck's run out on you  
> (all I wanted)  
> And you can't see when all your dreams are coming true
> 
> Oh, yeah  
> It's easy to forget, yeah  
> When you choke on the regrets, yeah  
> Who the hell did I think I was?
> 
> And stranger than your sympathy  
> And all these thoughts you stole from me  
> And I'm not sure where I belong  
> And nowhere's home and I'm all wrong
> 
> And I was in love with things I tried to make believe I was  
> And I wouldn't be the one to kneel before the dreams I wanted  
> And all the talk and all the lies were all the empty things disguised as me  
> Mmm, yeah
> 
> Stranger than your sympathy  
> Stranger than your sympathy  
> Mmm hmmm mmm
> 
> Sympathy By Goo Goo Dolls

The first time I went to the Cinema, I ended up having to make an excuse to walk out half way through the film. In hindsight, I really should have argued against watching something that was about a magical war. It was like poking my fragile psyche with a stick. Baiting myself into having a panic attack.

I guess part of me wanted to prove I was strong enough to handle it, that my past didn't have as much of a hold on me as it seemed to. Another reason I agreed to the film Jamie picked out was because of the simple fact that Jamie seemed so excited about seeing it. I didn't want to ruin our first date by telling her we couldn't watch the film she wanted because...well, that's the third reason. I would have had to lie about _why_ I didn't want to watch it.Even then, in the early days of our relationship, I didn't like lying to Jamie. She was such an open and honest person, to the point of blunt obliviousness at times.

Someone like that didn't deserve to be lied to by someone they cared about. But there were some things I couldn't tell her then, not without looking and sounding like a fucking lunatic. It's not like I could even prove magic existed, what with my complete lack of it.

Truthfully though, it wasn't just that Jamie might have thought I was insane if I told her about Wizards and Witches. It was that I didn't want to invite even the concept of magic into the new life I'd been trying to build for myself. Trying to forget all that had happened to me during my teenage years and pretending to be ok with what I'd lost felt like a life sentence back then. It was my punishment for being born on the wrong side.

I used to wonder how different my life could have been if my parents had been more like the Weasleys. Pureblood, but not prejudice. Or even if my parents had been neutral in the war. Perhaps I would have been a kinder, better, person. At the very least, I might have ended up enduring less vicious nightmares.

Despite the lack of pride I have in my heritage these days, the thought of actually being a Weasley still makes part of me recoil in distaste. My parents would not be proud of the man I am now, I know that with absolute certainty. But I feel more comfortable within myself than I ever would have thought possible when I first lost my magic. I believe that I am a braver, more compassionate, man, and I like to think I became that person, not just because of Jamie or the children, but because of my own strength of will.

When I walked out in the middle of the film Jamie and I had been watching, I felt like I was drowning. I could barely move, like I was swimming against the current. I couldn't breathe no matter how much I gasped for air. It was as if my own body was working against me. Worse than any spell. At least mentally. Because I had no one to blame but myself for what I was feeling.

Panic attacks are horrible for a lot of reasons, but what I hated the most was the sense that I had no control. I'd spent most of my life being manipulated or forced into things by other people, so to have my own mind betray me in such a way was both horrifying and infuriating in equal measure.

It wasn't just the fear that got me, not anymore. I'd learnt the hard way that there are far worse things to feel in this world than fear. It was the anger, the all consuming rage that somehow made me feel too hot and too cold at the same time, that dragged me down into the fathomless ocean of my nightmares.

I felt too much. After years of pretending not to feel anything during the war. Having to watch Voldemort break my father into jagged pieces that no longer fit where they were supposed to. Having to watch as my fiercely proud father was worn down like a piece of chalk until there was barely anything left of the man who raised me.

I think of him, sometimes, still trapped in Azkaban. I imagine him motionless and weak and too numb to feel afraid anymore. There are even times when I think he might be dead. I've hoped for it. Wished for it. Not because I resent or hate my father, but because I know in my heart that the Lucius Malfoy who dropped me off at the station for my first year at Hogwarts would rather have died. That man would despair of who he became by the end of the war.

Over the years I've thought about going to visit my father. Even with my lack of magic, the Aurors would have no choice but to permit me entrance to the unforgiving walls of Azkaban.

Whilst awaiting my final trial, I spent a few sleepless nights in that place. That ninth circle of hell. Being there felt like the death of all hope. It was cold in my cell, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and never really goes away. And it was dark, always, no matter what time of day it was, which made it almost impossible to keep time. If desperation has a scent then that scent was created and developed in Azkaban. Even the memory of it makes me feel sick and empty and alone.

Not being able to tell what the time was, or even if it was day or night, gave the illusion that time had no meaning. I thought I would go mad from it. I thought maybe I would be there forever, that they would forget about the trial and just keep me locked away until I died. I understood, not for the first time, why someone would consider death a mercy.

It wasn't my fear of Azkaban that stopped me from visiting my father, it was my shame and guilt. Shame and guilt over not being able to save my mother. My father wasn't there when she died. He'd already been arrested by then.

I was there. I saw her die at the hand of a Death eater who's name I didn't know. He was one of the one's who tormented us though, I knew that. I believe he was a Pureblood from Novosibirsk, but everyone just called him 'Kosti'.

If my father had been the same man he was before the war, he would have found a way to get to Kosti. He would have found the man's family, or anyone Kosti cared about and he would have made them suffer. Lucius Malfoy would have destroyed the man who killed his wife and made him regret ever crossing anyone with the surname Malfoy.

As it was, my father was in no fit state to do what needed to be done. Neither was I. But then, I never was. If I'd been capable of doing what needed to be done then I would have killed Dumbledore. Or better yet, I would have stood up to my father and refused to let him lead us down the path to ruin. Because we all knew it was going to go to shit right from the beginning. My mother knew it was a mistake to follow a madman into war, and so did I. But our father's word was law, my mother and I both knew that as well.

I should have taken Dumbledore's offer of sanctuary and demanded he save my parents in exchange for whatever the hell he needed from me. Because I wasn't stupid. Or Potter. Dumbledore didn't offer to save me out of the goodness of his heart. As much as other people like to deny it, Dumbledore was a chess playing master politician more than he was anything else. Including a headmaster. Although the idea of him once having been a professor who actually had to teach a class full of students both amuses and slightly horrifies me.

I didn't do the things I should have done back then because I was a stupid, terrified child who felt trapped. I used to wonder if Potter felt just as trapped as I did, maybe even more so, and if that's why he followed Dumbledore around like his personal Sidekick Of Justice. Now that we're semi-civil I might ask him. If I ever feel like dodging a punch to the nose.

The man who killed my mother was sent back to Russia to be tried by his homeland. I doubt whatever sentence they gave him was what he deserved, but I never tried to find out. My mother was killed for being a traitor. She defied Voldemort and walked away from the final battle, taking me with her. I knew then, as she held on tight to my arm like she was afraid I would disappear, that despite her innate coldness, my mother loved me.

It was her love for me that got her killed, in the end. Another thing that ties me to Potter, even if it is in an obscure way that neither of us will probably ever want to talk about.

I don't remember much about what happened after I left during the film that first time. Jamie found me curled in on myself, sitting on the cold concrete ground directly outside the cinema. She told me later that I had my head ducked down between my knees and that I was choking like a man who had just swallowed a dangerous amount of water. Jamie sat with me for over an hour. She rubbed my back and just kept saying _'you're ok'_ like she really believed it _._

Of course that wasn't true. I was so very far from being 'ok' that it should have pissed me off that Jamie said it at all. But because it was Jamie, and because even then I felt something for her that was unlike anything I'd felt before in my life, her conviction that I was indeed 'ok' comforted me. I took that comfort and wrapped it around my damaged psyche like a security blanket.

Once I'd come back to myself I apologised over and over again, feeling embarrassed and weak for breaking down like that in front of Jamie. But Jamie didn't seem put off at all. She waved off missing the second half of film, telling me that she thought it was a crap film anyway, and she took me to a local pub where we had something to eat.

Jamie acted as if me losing my shit wasn't some awful date-ruining event. She asked me a few questions about it, but then left the topic alone when I made it clear I didn't want to discuss it. Jamie was good at that, knowing when to back off and let me think. She was also good at making me laugh and forget for a while. She never treated me like I was damaged or broken or fucked up. Even though I was all of those things.

Hermione and co chose a film about superheroes that I know Leo would love. I sit there in the screening room with Potter on my right and Zara on my left, trying to pretend I know what the hell is going on. It all just looks like a load of shouting and exploding crap to me with a few snarky quips thrown in now and again.

I exchange a few looks with Potter, who seems to be thinking along the same lines. He doesn't seem overly impressed by the violence or action. But then he is an Auror and I suppose once you've experienced that much real life turmoil and danger you would no longer find fake danger all that exciting.

I catch Hermione glancing over at me and Zara with an assessing look on her face. I have to seriously resist the urge to slap myself out of sheer exasperation. Or fake a heart attack to get myself out of this crap situation.

Two and something hours later we all walk out. Hermione, Luna, Erin and Zara are busy chattering and arguing about the film. Neville has his arm wrapped around Hannah's shoulders, the two of them walking closely together. They're talking to each other in hushed tones and communicating through looks in the way only couples who have been together for a long time often do.

I find myself walking alone with Potter whilst we all make our way to the restaurant where we're supposed to be eating tonight. It's only a ten minute walk from the Cinema to the restaurant and in that time I try desperately to think of an excuse to escape whatever this night is doomed to turn into.

"You know, you can actually just leave if you want to, Malfoy." Potter says suddenly. He's quirking a somewhat amused eyebrow at me. The bastard. He adds, "No one's going chase you down and tackle you."

"You know, you can actually just shut up if you to, Potter." I snap, more irritated than I probably have any right to be considering the fact that Potter is technically right. "No one is going to ask you to keep talking."

"Is it the film that got you in this mood or just going to the Cinema in general?" Potter asks with a surprising amount of understanding in his voice. Although what he's supposed to be understanding I really don't know.

I decide, against my better judgement and sense of logic, to be honest with Potter. We should all be equally horrified by the notion.

"I went out with Jamie for the first time to the Cinema." I say. "I walked out in the middle of the film because it made me think too much about...the war...and...well...everything else that I didn't want to ever think about again."

Potter's impossibly vivid green eyes widen and he curses, immediately looking regretful.

"Shit, Malfoy. You should have said before. I wouldn't have made such a big thing out of you coming if I'd known it might bring some stuff up for you."

I frown at that, feeling a bit stupid for admitting the truth now. I really do not need pity from Potter. Pity shouldn't exist between us. Not now. Too much has happened for that kind of shit.

"Piss off, Potter. I didn't tell you that because I wanted you to get all weirdly apologetic or so that you'd feel sorry for me."

Potter watches me with a oddly curious expression on his face and asks,

"Why did you tell me then?"

I have no fucking clue.

"I figured that's our thing now." I say instead. "Telling each other the things we never say to anyone else." Which is a bit of a wild guess on my part. Maybe Potter talks to a lot of his friends about the stuff we talk about. How the bloody hell would I know? But something inside me balks at that thought.

I realise then that some part of me, some clinically insane part that seriously needs to die, likes the idea of sharing something with Potter that's just between the two of us. Which means I may need to be assessed by a professional of some kind to figure out what the hell is wrong with me. What kind of lunatic wants to play secret confessor with their old childhood rival who they haven't spoken to in over a decade?

Well, a lunatic named Draco Malfoy apparently.

"Yeah." Potter agrees, throwing me for a loop once again. "Maybe it is our new thing." He smiles slightly. "Better than cursing each other, I guess."

I snort at him.

"Speak for yourself. I much preferred our days of senseless animosity built on mutual dislike and anger issues due to out of control teenage hormones."

Potter laughs and shoves lightly at my shoulder.

"Git."

I shove him back. Because the idea that you mature with age is a concept that adults invented and like to pretend is true.

"Prat." I sniff, throwing a bit of haughtiness into it just so I get to see Potter wrinkle his nose and roll his eyes like he expected nothing less from me.

"I took Ginny out for ice cream on our first proper date. You know, after the war I mean." Potter tells me.

"Woah, big spender Potter. How horrifically sweet. I bet there was a lot of giggling and hair flicking going on."

Potter scoffs at me.

"Ginny was more likely to give you a smack than flick her hair." He says.

I think Potter's probably right about that. From what I remember of Ginny Weasley, she was a fiery little witch. A strong willed heroine such as Ginny Weasley was the perfect match for a bull-headed hero Harry Potter.

I give Potter a look like I think he's a moron. I do think he's a moron. A reckless, hard-headed, Gryffindor moron with the self-preservation skills of an angry twig. And I will stand by that description until the day I die.

"I wasn't talking about Ginny, Potter." I say smugly. "I meant you. You would be the one giggling and flicking your _ridiculous_ hair."

"Oi, would you stop going on about my hair!" Potter slaps a hand over his hair and tries (in vain) to smooth it down. The ebony locks immediately spring back into disarray without a single fuck to give.

"Now we know the truth that your hair is your real ultimate enemy, Potter. I think I might be jealous. I'll have to step up my game to compete." I say, desperately trying hide what I think might be a fond smile. I do not want to smile at Potter with anything akin to fondness. I cannot afford to be fond of Potter. I don't have the time or the money for the therapy I would need to deal with that level of mindfuck.

Potter glares at me. But it isn't a real glare, and his eyes are lit up with amusement. Damn him.

"Yeah well." Potter says, watching me intently. "Of all of my numerous enemies, you can rest assured that you'll always be my favourite."

"So you admit that I'm still your enemy." I say, feeling oddly breathless for no real reason. No sensible reason anyway.

I realise that Potter and I are staring at each other again, and that we've wandered quite far away from the others. It feels like we're alone, even though we aren't really. I don't know why the thought of being alone with Potter causes my heart to race in a way that isn't entirely unpleasant.

Clearly I am losing my mind. I mean there isn't much left to lose at this point, but still.

We've stopped walking now, and even though the night air is cold, I barely feel it. Potter is looking at me, a strange half smile on his face. He seems more nervous than anything, which makes absolutely no sense to me. We're just standing here. Staring at each other. Again.

I tell myself to look away. To move. To laugh, or joke, or say something scathing to Potter that will make him huff off in a strop. But I don't. I can't. And I don't understand why.

Suddenly I'm nervous too, and I find myself doing what I always do when I'm nervous. I focus on small things. In this particular instance, I catologue the details of Potter's face.

I notice the strong, hard line of his jaw, and the dark stubble that marks it.

I count Potter's jet black eyelashes, including the one that has escaped and is stuck at the corner of Potter's left eye.

Potter has thick eyebrows that are surprisingly neat considering the situation with the hair on top his head, which, as always, resembles a complete train crash in hair form.

His skin is smooth and unblemished apart from the scar on his forehead and two other scars he appears to have acumilated over the years. One on his right cheek that is a few inchest long, and another that curves like a crescent moon at the far edge of his right eyebrow. I wonder for a moment how he got them. Was it whilst working a case? Does he have any more scars that I can't see? Knowing Potter, the answer to that one is 'probably'.

I think about my own scars, and try not to imagine how Potter would react _them_.

Potter tilts his head to one side and locks his gaze with mine, his eyes burning with an intenisty that scares the ever-loving shit out of me. Then he answers the question I didn't technically ask.

"I don't know what you are to me anymore."

Before I can even attempt to unpack that statement, a voice pierces the bubble that Potter and I have created for ourselves.

"Hey, what are we talking about over here? Is everything ok?" Erin asks, sounding both confused and a bit worried.

Erin. Potter's date. Holy shit. We are supposed to be on a group fucking date and I'm standing here on the corner of a dimly lit street _staring_ at Harry bloody Potter. There is clearly something severly wrong with me. If I didn't have children who need me then I would seriously consider checking myself into some kind of psychiatric hospital. Mostly for the possibility of rest.

I tear my eyes firmly away from Potter and turn a hopefully not-too-demented look on Erin. Erin. Potter's incredibly attractive date. Right. Ok. I think I'm glaring at her. I really hope I'm not glaring at her. Erin is looking at me like I'm glaring at her. Shit.

"We were just having a very important debate about whether Potter should keep on fighting the good fight with his hair or just say sod it and shave his head." I say, desperately grasping at any form of distraction. My cheeks feel like they're on fire and my heart still pounding in my chest so hard that it hurts.

"What?" Erin asks, astonished, and quite rightly so, because _**what**_?

When Hermione and the rest come into view I make my great escape by, basically, running away. Or at least walking very swiftly away. But it's the spirit of the thing that counts. In my head I'm running. And screaming.

"Hermione!" I say. Loudly. Far, far too loudly. "I need to talk to you about...a thing."

Someone kill me, please, just Avada Kedava me right here and now for the love of Merlin.

Hermione stares at me like I'm an alien for about two seconds before something obviously clicks inside her brain. Her eyes dart between me and who I imagine is Potter behind me. I don't turn to check. I do, however, feel someone (Potter) make a grab for my arm and say,

"Hold on, Malfoy, wait, I-"

I do not let him finish that sentence, because I know nothing sane or safe will come from it. I pull my arm out of Potter's reach. Because I'm a coward. Just like I was when we were at school. No matter how much I like to think I've changed...I also think maybe I'll always be a coward when it comes to Potter.

I make my way over to Hermione and ignore everyone else. I'm sure Luna isn't bothered, but all the others must be wondering the hell is going on. I'm one of those people as well actually.

Potter, ever the stubborn prat, follows after me and tries again.

"Malfoy, come on, you can't just-"

" _Harry_." Hermione says, with a bit of bite in her voice to let him know she's serious. She pierces Potter with an unimpressed frown and adds firmly, "Stop."

Somehow that seems to be enough to make Potter pause in whatever he was trying to accomplish. I'm tempted to call that a miracle. All I know is that Hermione will be my hero for life if she manages to get me out of this.

I see Hermione share a very loaded look with Luna. After a moment Luna nods and without hesitation she practically throws herself at Potter. Or at least I assume it's Potter who yelps, because I still refuse to look at him.

Luna drags Potter off and distracts him with some inane chatter about the magnetic pull of the stars and the beauty of the moon and blah blah whatever. I don't care. As long as it keeps him away from me she could unhinge her jaw like a snake and eat him and I still wouldn't care.

I notice that Zara is standing off to the side with the Longbottom's. They all appear to be vaguely amused about something. Zara is even smirking. I have no idea what they all find so funny about catching two blokes standing on a corner and staring at each other. We must have looked bloody demented.

I refocus on Hermione and she raises an eyebrow at me. I just stare at her. She eventually rolls her eyes and says to everyone,

"Lets get going then, or we'll lose our reservation."

That snaps the rest of them into action and we all start moving again. I stay close to Hermione this time and do my absolute best to ignore Potter's existence.

As has been the case all my life, ignoring Potter is a lot harder than it should be.

...

Have you ever sat through meal at a restaurant so awkward that part of you genuinely wishes something awful would happen just so that you would have an excuse to leave? Like the kitchen catching fire. Or a car driving in through the front window. Or the waiter having a sudden heart attack and falling down dead on your table.

I really hope other people feel that way, because otherwise I'm just a terrible human being.

Luckily I have an entire childhood of experience and practice enduring uncomfortable dinner situations, so, I'm fine. No, really, I'm fine. Very fine. Extremely fine.

I realise, mortifyingly, that I actually muttered all of that to myself out loud when Zara leans in to whisper to me mockingly,

"That's good to know, cheekbones. I'm glad that you're fine. Thank you so much for telling me."

I've learned over the course of the night that not only is Zara Quinn beautiful, she is also clever and unapologetically honest and kind of a bitch. I like her quite a lot. She reminds me of a girl I knew in school. Daphne Greengrass' little sister, Astoria. I think if I'd had the time or the inclination to fancy anyone in my later years at Hogwarts then I would have fancied Astoria Greengrass. Apparently I like them mean.

"You can take your snark and eat it, Quinn." I say under my breathe.

Zara hears me anyway and smirks in self-satisfaction.

"Don't get stroppy." She scolds. "You're the one rocking back and forth in your chair and muttering to yourself in the middle of a Pizza Express. Which is what all sane people tend to do by the way."

To be fair, our table isn't situated quite in the middle of Pizza Express. Our group was actually seated upstairs in the corner by a large window. I've found myself sitting between Zara and Hermione with Potter sat as far away from me as possible due to Hermione's subtle intervention. I knew becoming friends with Hermione would be one of the best decisions I've ever made.

Unfortunately I also know that Potter keeps _looking_ at me. Because unlike our mutual friend he's a massive unsubtle prat who needs to die so he won't ever be able to talk to me again.

"Do you always insult your non-dates this much?" I ask Zara without any heat behind it.

Zara leans her elbows on the table, links her fingers together, and rests her chin on her hands. She smiles prettily at me, like a bloody shark, and says,

"You should hear how much I insult my real dates."

I can't hold in the snort of laughter that comes out of my mouth at that.

"Are you finding it tough to meet anyone you like then?" I ask, genuinely curious this time. All I really know about Zara's romantic past is that she had a bloke who ran off when they found out their son is a wizard.

"I'm finding it tough to meet anyone I can even tolerate." Zara says, smiling sadly. "I haven't 'liked' a man since Clarke, and he turned out to be a bastard, so I'm not sure I can trust my own judgement when it comes to men."

I study her thoughtfully for a moment before gesturing at myself and saying,

"Ok, well, what does your judgement tell you about me?"

Zara narrows her eyes slightly at me, as if gauging the sincerity of my question. After a few seconds of contemplation she says,

"Reformed bastard."

I don't know if I should laugh or take offense to that rather blunt description.

"Keep going." I encourage. "Tell me all about myself Zara Quinn."

Zara's mouth quirks upwards into an almost smile. She looks me up and down a few times, then says,

"I think you were a right little shit at school, because you thought you had everything. But then you lost it all, which forced you to become someone different. You met a woman who helped you be better, to change, and you finally thought you knew who you were. But then you lost her, and even years later you're still trying to work out how much of that change is what she made you and how much of it is just you being who you really are."

Sounds like the answer to a question on an exam. Describe the life of Draco Malfoy in a hundred words or less. Great. I've also never heard anyone use the word 'you' quite that many times. And that's why I wouldn't do well in therapy. I'd spend the entire time counting how many times my therapist said a certain word. Like an OCD wordsmith.

I say in a somewhat strained voice,

"I think your judgement's pretty on point, Quinn. You shouldn't doubt yourself so much."

Zara seems to consider that. After a short pause she asks,

"Do you?"

I frown, confused.

"Do I what?"

"Doubt yourself." Zara says.

I grimace and answer honestly.

"Constantly."

"Because of the choices you made in the past." Zara asks shrewdly.

I laugh without humour and shake my head.

"Because of the choices I didn't make."

Before Zara can poke at that old wound I ask about her son, Stephen. A sure way to distract any parent is to bring up their child. Most people could chat for England about their son or daughter. Zara Quinn is no exception. She tells me that her son recently joined the Ravenclaw Quidditch team as their new Seeker, and that Headmistress McGonagall apparently thinks he's a prodigy in her old subject. Zara admits that she still doesn't really understand what Transfiguration is, so I try to explain it to her.

I tell Zara about Leo and his penchant for getting himself into trouble. Zara laughs and informs me that Stephen has actually mentioned my son in his letters. Apparently Leo and his bestie James are creating quite a reputation for themselves, Merlin help us all.

I also tell Zara about Cissa possibly wanting to go to a muggle secondary school. That actually catches the attention of everyone at the table.

"I know that magic isn't important to you anymore, but would you _really_ let your daughter miss out on reaching her full potential at a _magical_ school?" Erin asks me, sounding aghast at the very thought. Her pretty faces scrunches into a distasteful expression.

I barely resist the urge to snarl at her, not only for the implication in her question, but also because I've noticed the way she's been pushing herself into Potter's space all throughout dinner. She's been lightly slapping his arm when she laughs at something he's said, and touching his hand, and playing with his hair. Potter has been polite and friendly, but I can tell that he's uncomfortable with her less than subtle attempts at flirting.

I contemplate making a comment aimed to cut and shred, but when I catch Potter's eye he shakes his head. He must have read the intent in my eyes. I dip my head in a slight nod of acknowledgement and curtail my angry reaction to Erin's question.

"Going to a magical school isn't the be all and end all." Potter says, quite obviously in my defense. "You don't need magic to have a good life."

I can't decide how to feel about Potter actually defending me to someone, so I pretend not to feel anything at all. An arena in which I excel.

I make sure to keep my voice level and calm when I say,

"Cissa hasn't had much experience with magic, it's not like we use it at home. Maybe she would feel differently if she was around magic all the time in her daily life, but either way, it's her choice to make. I won't take that right away from her."

Neville looks at me then, his eyes widening in slight surprise.

"You really mean that? You'd be alright with your daughter choosing to live her life as a muggle even though she doesn't have to?" He says, like it's a statement and not an actual question he wants me to answer.

I answer anyway.

"No matter what she decides to do, Cissa will be the one who has to accept the consequences of her choice. If Cissa really thinks she'll be happier living without magic, then who am I to tell her she's wrong?"

"Yes, but you've experienced both sides, so you must know which is best." Erin mutters timidly.

I hold back the urge to snap again and shrug.

"Knowing both sides means I understand the benefits of living with and without magic, yes. But my experiences won't be Cissa's experiences. Even if she went to Hogwarts, it wouldn't be the same as when I went."

"God, you'd fucking hope not." Potter says.

"Hey, our early years at Hogwarts weren't so bad." Neville says, smiling. He turns to his wife. "Right, Han."

Hannah Longbottom gives her husband an even stare and whacks his arm.

"All of my years at Hogwarts before the war were just fine. I wasn't running around trying to avoid death at the end of every summer term." Hannah looks at Potter with genuine sympathy.

Potter looks distinctively uncomfortable again so I come to his unlikely rescue.

"Don't go feeling bad for Potter." I say. "He only ended up in half of those situations because he was a reckless Gryffindor prat. And the other half of the time he got into trouble because he was a nosy sod who couldn't leave well enough alone."

Everyone at the table kind of gapes at me in muted horror until Potter starts to laugh, swiftly followed by Hermione who starts laughing too. Eventually the others join in the laughter as well. Erin included. So maybe she's not completely awful.

Still all wrong for Potter though. She's too rigid and submissive in nature, nothing like his late wife. Ginny Potter had the kind of fiercely challenging and passionate personality that a stubborn, hot-headed man like Potter needs in his life. Some people need to be balanced out by their partner. Others crave to be met head on, in the middle, horns locked, ready to fight both for and against one another.

That might not be the most healthy relationship to have with someone you love, but Potter isn't exactly what I would call a healthy minded person. How could he be after everything he's been through and suffered? The fact that Potter's not rolling around in a white room somewhere is a testament to how strong he really is.

The rest of the night goes as smoothly as it was ever going to and I soon find myself outside again saying goodbye to everyone.

When Neville holds out is hand to shake mine I take it and hold on when he tries to pull away. I look Neville in the eye and say with as much sincerity as I can dredge up,

"I know this is coming over a decade and half late, and I know it's nowhere near enough, but I am truly sorry for how I treated you in school, Neville. I think back on it now and I don't know what was going on inside my head that I thought I had the right to make you feel like-"

Neville squeezes my hand, hard, and cuts me off with a huff of laughter.

"I can't believe I'm standing in a Cinema car park with Draco Malfoy, shaking his hand as he apologises to me like he means it." Neville says, shaking his head. He looks a me with a more serious expression and goes on, "It's been a long time, Draco. But thanks for your apology. It still means something that you're actually saying the words I never thought I'd hear from you."

"Well, I wasn't actually finished apologising, so." I say, awkwardly defensive.

Neville just raises a clearly amused eyebrow at me.

"Yeah, well, no offense, but it's cold out here, and I really want to make the most of a night at home with my wife whilst the kids are with their grandparents."

Ah, right, been there.

"Fair enough." I say with a firm nod. I let go of Neville's hand. We share a final look of understanding before Neville leaves with the wife he clearly loves so much.

I watch him go and entertain the notion that Neville Longbottom is a prime example of someone who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps and made it good. After everything he lost and suffered and fought for, he deserves the great life he has now. And I'm weirdly glad the universe allowed him to have it.

I get a kiss on the cheek and a wink from Zara in goodbye. We exchange numbers and she promises to come by the Café some time soon.

Luna and Hermione both give me a hug, and I exchange an awkward nod with Erin.

Finally I'm left alone with Potter again. Hermione gave me a questioning look before leaving, as if offering her assistance. But as tempted as I was to take her up on it, I realised escaping now would only temporarily put off the inevitable. Potter is well known for his inability to let things go.

Potter and I stand there, in the car park looking at each other, neither of us knowing what to say. Or if there really is anything _to_ say.

Eventually though, like the true Gryffindor he is, Potter makes the first move.

"Wanna go get a drink?" He asks, eyes bright and intense and set on mine.

I nod without hesitation.

"Merlin, yes. A drink. Or a lot of them, maybe."

Potter cracks a smile and says,

"I know a place."

Potter actually drove here instead of Apparating, so I agree to follow him in my own car.

Once we're both out on the road, I consider that I might be making a massive mistake here. I have no idea how this night is going to play out. But the fact that I want to find out will just have to be enough until I can think of something better, and hopefully less terrifying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please review!


	12. Dare you to feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're a million lonely people  
> All together on this needle in the sky  
> Afraid of heights  
> And your dreams were made illegal  
> By the laws of lesser evil we call life  
> But not tonight
> 
> I dare you to love  
> I dare you to cry  
> I dare you to run  
> I dare you to try  
> I dare you to fall  
> And lay on the ground  
> I dare you to feel  
> I dare you to be here now
> 
> You're an outline of a vision  
> That you had when we were children yesterday  
> You watch it fade  
> Let your heart be your religion  
> Let it break you out of this prison you became  
> It's not too late
> 
> I dare you to love  
> I dare you to cry  
> I dare you to run  
> I dare you to try  
> I dare you to fall  
> And lay on the ground  
> I dare you to feel  
> I dare you to be here now
> 
> I dare you  
> I dare you
> 
> Dare You By Hardwell ft. Matthew Koma

I'm at a bar. With Potter. I'm at a bar with Potter, and I'm sitting next to him on the world's most uncomfortable stool. And we're both drunk.

We started with cider, and that was fine, but then the shots came into play and woah. I am far too old for this shit.

The bar we're in is called 'Collide'. It's small, dark and far too hot with strobe lights, a live band, and a very packed dance floor. And yeah, we are about fifteen years too old to be here.

Potter chose this bar. That should have been the first warning sign.

Ok, so I think we can all agree that this whole thing is a bad idea, yes?

Yes, good. Right. Bad idea. Very bad. Very, very, moronically bad.

But luckily, or stupidly, I am now too pissed to give a single flying fuck. About anything. Possibly ever again.

I feel dizzy and too warm and hungry and full and sick and I can't stop fidgeting in my seat. Which is funny, because, I spent my entire childhood being taught how to _stay still_. I had to be still and quiet and cold. Like a very small sociopath, I saw the world through smashed glass. Nothing looked right, but I didn't know that then. How could I?

That's the thing I think people don't get sometimes about people like me. About children who grew up like I did. We are who we are because no one ever told us how not to be.

The truth of it is that you can't really know how fucked up you are until you meet other people. A child who was raised with violence or indifference might know that they don't like pain or being ignored, but they won't know that it's wrong in the first place. How can anyone be expected to understand something they've never even been told is an option?

As much as people like to pretend otherwise, abuse is subjective. Or at least, that's the way it seems to me. I would never consider myself a victim of abuse. But there were times when I told Jamie stories from my childhood and she would give me this _look_ , like just looking at me made her feel sad. It was as if I'd told her something horrible, even though I considered the story to be relatively ordinary.

Conversely, Jamie would tell me stories from her childhood and I'd feel like I was listening to a tale from a children's story book.

I'm sure part of it was that she and I grew up in almost completely different worlds. But. I know I can't blame all of it on that fact.

I could also argue that my parents and Penny had somewhat contrasting parenting styles. But. I suppose there has to be a point where bad parenting turns into just...doing bad things to another person. When opinion crosses over into breaking someone down from the inside out. The problem is that it can sometimes be hard to know where the line is.

What seems obvious to one person might be utterly indiscernible to another. There's a cycle to it, I think. Maybe if I'd been allowed to keep my magic after the war and my parents stayed both alive and free, I would have had a child with a pureblood witch and raised that child the same way I was raised.

I know for a fact that my mother grew up constantly trying to balance on the razor edge of a blade. But she was brave, in her own way. Braver than I was. Am, even. She did everything she could, I believe that, I really do. Even if it might not seem like enough to some people.

Our mothers and our fathers, most the time they're probably just trying to do the best that they can. They make their mistakes. They make their choices. All we can really do is try to make better ones.

Shit, I'm drunk. My thoughts are starting to feel too honest.

I'm beginning to sympathise with Al, the alcoholic homeless man who sleeps on the Moon Cafe's doorstep sometimes. I'd probably sleep in doorways too if I had to deal with feeling like this all the bloody time. Then again, he's probably trying to drown out even worse thoughts and feelings by drinking in the first place.

Worse than _this_. Christ. How genuinely horrifying.

I'll have to do more than give Al a blanket and a muffin next time he comes around.

Potter breaks me out of my thoughts by suddenly sitting up straight and giving me a bright eyed look that immediately puts me on edge.

"We should play truth or dare." Potter says, like that's a thing adults say to each other.

"Potter. No." I say firmly. Or as firm as I can when I'm half slumped over the bar top.

Potter goes on as if I hadn't spoken.

"Yeah, definitely, we should play truth or dare. Gin and I used to...we used to play it when we were pissed off with each other." He pauses, chewing on the corner of his mouth like he does when he's remembering something both good and painful. Why do I know that? I hate that I've come to know Potter even that much.

Potter keeps talking.

"It helped. I dunno why." He smiles slightly. Like he only kind of means it. There's a bit of spit on his bottom lip left over from the biting and I want to taste...shove him off his stall. Right off onto his arse. The prat.

Potter is still talking.

"It made talking easier, I think."

Oh shut _up_ , Potter.

I stare in disbelief and tell him,

"That...is the stupidest thing you've ever said. And trust me, that is quite a feat considering the amount of general rubbish that comes out of your mouth."

Potter makes a face at me. He asks dubiously,

"Do you even know what truth or dare _is_ , Malfoy?"

I huff in exasperation.

" _Yes_ , I know what truth or dare is, Potter. I've seen...films. And things. I also know that truth or dare is a game for fourteen year olds."

"So?" Potter says, shrugging.

"We," I waggle a finger between him and myself, "are not fourteen year olds."

Potter appears non-plussed by my perfectly logical response.

"Did you actually play truth or dare when you fourteen?" Potter asks, peering at me curiously.

I snort derisively.

"Of course _not_. Why, did you?"

"When I was fourteen I was little busy." Potter replies drolly. "I don't know if you remember, but that year the lunatic who murdered my parents tried to kill me."

I wave a dismissive hand and smirk at him.

"Yeah, but, that happened pretty much every year back then. You should have expected it and planned your teenage hijinks accordingly."

Potter shakes his head, but his mouth is curved into a smile and he's got laughter in his eyes. They're glowing again.

"You're a prick." Potter says.

"I know." I say ruefully.

There's a short pause where we just kind of look at each other, not speaking or breathing or blinking or even thinking. That's how it is for me anyway.

Eventually thought Potter ruins it by slapping the bar top and saying,

"Come on then, you can go first, truth or dare?"

I sigh dramatically.

"Potter I am _not_ -"

Potter cuts me off.

"Go _on_. Stop whinging and pick one."

He seems far too pleased with himself. I may need to hurt him.

"I do not _whinge_." I huff, shooting him a fierce glare. He just keeps staring at me.

Those **eyes.**

Bastard.

I want it noted that I only give in because I can't be arsed to get up and leave right now. "Fine." I snap. "Truth."

It worries me to the depth of my core that Potter appears oddly excited by my choice. I should throw myself off this stool right now and plead concussion.

Potter must sense my hesitation because he speaks before I can put my obviously genius escape plan into action.

"Have you been with anyone since Jamie died?"

I like that he uses Jamie's actual name instead of just calling her 'your wife'. That's the only reason I don't tell him to fuck right off and die with his question.

"No." I say simply. Because I have no real reason to lie. If Potter is going to dislike something about me it's not going to be my lack of love life. It'd be my personality.

I can tell he was hoping for a more detailed response, and he is clearly disappointed that I give no sign of wanting to elaborate.

Which is why I do. Just to fuck with him.

"I loved Jamie. She was...Merlin, she was everything. She still is, in some ways. I see pieces of her in Leo and Cissa and Penny. And me. I wouldn't be...I wouldn't be who I am now if it weren't for her."

"Ah." Potter nods, seeming to considering me seriously for a moment before going on. "So it's Jamie we all have to thank for your change from barely tolerable to...somewhat likeable."

I scrunch up my nose at that.

"I really hope that wasn't your way of saying you _like_ me, Potter."

Potter mouth twists up into an approximation of a smirk. He looks away from me and takes a drink from his half empty glass. I think we've moved onto cheap whiskey at this point.

"Not on your life, Malfoy." Potter says, meeting my eyes again.

I down the rest of my latest drink, then say,

"Ok then, your turn Potter. Truth or dare."

Honestly, I expect Potter to go for dare. He is a Gryffindor after all. But he surprises me by saying,

"Truth."

I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him, but Potter's putting on a good show of innocence. I shrug it off and think about all the things I genuinely want to ask Potter. Since his first question was a heavy hitter, I reason that I'm allowed the same leeway, and so I decide to go for it.

"Have _you_ been with anyone since Ginny died?"

Potter's jaw clenches and clicks, the anger more instinctive than anything. He answers without inflection.

"Yes."

What?

I'm so shocked that I find myself blurting.

" _Really_?"

Potter finishes off his drink and takes a deep breathe. He puts the glass down on the bar top with more force than necessary.

"Yeah." He says, his voice rough. "It was a stupid, one time thing. I felt shitty afterwards. Really shitty." He laughs without humour and scowls down the bar. "Hermione would probably have said I wasn't ready for the inevitable emotional backlash of being with someone who wasn't Ginny for the first time in my life. She would have said it was too soon."

I think about how likely it is that my next question will earn me a punch to the jaw, and then I decide to ask anyway.

"How long after-"

"Two months."

 _Shit_.

"Hermione would have been right about the too soon bit." I say carefully, hoping he won't take that the wrong way. I'm the last person to judge how anyone should respond to loss. My way coping wasn't, _isn't_ , exactly healthy by any stretch of the imagination.

Potter's expression creases into something painful and full of self-hatred. Enough to drown himself in. To choke on. And yeah, I know that feeling. I've known it intimately for the last five years.

Hold on a minute, I just realised what Potter implied with Hermione _would have_ said?

"You didn't tell Hermione about the One Time Only Thing." I say, slightly dumbfounded by the notion. I thought Potter told Hermione everything. Or at least, the things that mattered.

"I've never told anyone." Potter admits.

Well, _shit_. Again.

I try to find the right words respond with.

"Potter, I don't-"

Potter knocks on the bar and talks over me.

"Hey, it's my your turn, Malfoy. Truth or dare."

I think about arguing, but Potter's got his stubborn face on. It wouldn't end well if I pushed this right now. And maybe I would have pushed anyway just to see Potter's eyes flash with that passionate violence of his. Because there's something about Potter when he's worked himself up into a good rage over something I've done or said that satisfies a horrible broken part of my psyche. Maybe it's because, apart from my parents, Potter is the only person who I've ever really cared about noticing me.

And if that isn't a sign that I'm fucked in the head, I don't know what is.

But as much as I might want to poke at the pissed off aura surrounding Potter, I resist the urge. For the sake of my own sanity. And his.

"Truth." I say

Whilst Potter rolls his head from side to side, considering what question to ask, I take the time to study him.

Potter is sitting up straight, like a soldier, despite the loose atmosphere of the bar and his inebriated state. I remember him slumping a lot more during our school years. He seems to hold himself differently these days. I'm sure part of that is his Auror training, but I do wonder if there's another reason. He doesn't look uncomfortable exactly. More, just, _aware_. Of his surroundings. Of himself.

It could be something as simple as an influx of confidence. We were teenagers the last time I knew him. Teenagers are known for both their arrogance and their complete lack of self-esteem.

Just because we were fighting in a war when we were teenagers doesn't mean we were adults.

Good thing too, because no one is better at taking risks than teenagers. And the war with Voldemort was one massive risk after another. On both sides.

In contrast with his posture, Potter is dressed like a 90s rockstar on his day off, with the pitch black stubble and messy bed-head to match. He took his jacket off when he sat down and his thin AC/DC t-shirt show off a powerful physique that could only have been earned through intensive workouts and training.

Due to the intense heat inside the relatively small, but busy, bar, I've been forced to remove my jumper, undo a few buttons on my white shirt _and_ roll my sleeves up to my elbows. Even with all that, I still feel too overly dressed to be in here. Most of the twenty-something year olds wandering around in this place are wearing next to nothing. I'm beginning to worry that their parents never taught them how to dress themselves properly. Or at all. And that thought makes me feel very, very old indeed.

Finally, Potter turns in his seat to pin me with another one of his penetrating stares and he asks,

"Why have you never gone to visit your father in Azkaban?"

How the bloody hell does Potter even know that I've never visited my father?

I don't bother to ask as I have a feeling I won't like the answer.

"He wouldn't want me to." I say grimly.

Potter is watching me closely. He seems to be looking for something, waiting for a reaction he can interpret. But I don't have anything to give him. I accepted that I would probably never see my father alive again a long time ago.

It may sound awful, but in my mind, my father died during the war. I watched him die. Slowly. Voldemort destroyed him, and the Ministry dealt the final blow by imprisoning him. A life sentence in Azkaban is what one might call 'a fate worse than death'.

"My father was a proud man." I tell Potter, as if he didn't already know that much. "His only son seeing him brought so low would only make him feel worse than he already does."

I can't think of a reason why Potter would care about any of this. But. Well. Potter is a bit weird like that, I think. Unpredictable.

Potter tilts his head to one side, still trying to read me. Good luck with that. I don't even know how I feel about my father most of the time. If Potter can figure that one out for me then I might just reconsider my long standing believe that he's an oblivious div when it comes to other people's emotions.

"Your father is still alive." Potter says, with a surprising amount of gentleness.

I freeze in my seat, every muscle in my body going stiff.

"I suppose you would have been told if he wasn't." I say with as much neutrality as I can manage.

How insane is it that, of all people, Harry Potter would be given the news that my father died first? I imagine no one in the Ministry would even think to contact me. I'm just an ex-death eater to them. Worse, an ex-death eater without magic.

As much as the Ministry may like to pretend they are above such prejudices, I know most of them think of muggles as...less. Just because the Ministry doesn't actively go around killing and torturing muggles, doesn't mean they give half a shit about them unless they have to. My father's dealings with them whilst I was growing up proved that to me, if nothing else.

I realise that Potter is blushing a little, which is...odd. He seems embarrassed about something. Colour me intrigued.

"What?" I ask.

Potter ducks his head and clears his throat. Stalling. How un-Potter.

"I keep tabs on them." Potter admits. He taps the bar top agitatedly.

I frown in confusion.

"Who?"

Potter looks like he really doesn't want to talk about it. Well, too bad. He started this. And yes, I know how immature that is, and no, I don't care.

" _His_ people." Potter eventually grits out.

I don't need to ask who he means. I know. I always know. There's a particular way Potter speaks when he's talking about Voldemort. His voice lowers a few notches, and his tone develops an unmistakable edge.

Potter has this weirdly intense expression on his face that I'm not sure...

I realise suddenly, the implication behind his admission.

"You think he might come back." I say. Cold. Hard. Unflinching. Terrified.

When Potter doesn't immediately say no, a feeling like ice slides down my spine. I worry for a moment that I'll be sick all over the bar.

I lean in closer to Potter and hiss " _Potter"_ with a desperation that makes me momentarily both furious and afraid in equal measure.

Potter turns his head to meet my eyes. Our faces are inches apart. Our noses brush. I shiver. And I hate myself for it. But, thankfully, I hate Potter even more.

I open my mouth to speak again, but I can't seem to make the words come out. Not with Potter looking at me so openly. It shouldn't be possible for Potter to wear his emotions the way he does. Someone should tell him that men like me are taught from birth how to break men like him using the kind of knowledge he's showing me right now.

Potter's eyes have shadows. They've seen too much. They know too much.

I heard the stories of course. The stories of what happened to Potter when he went to meet Voldemort in the forbidden forest. There were variations of the story, of course. I didn't believe any of them.

But now. Looking at him. Maybe there was some truth to those stories. Maybe Harry Potter really did die that day. Maybe this boy, this man sitting in front of me, knows death in a way no living person should.

What a fucking terrible burden that must be. I would be so _angry_ , if it were me.

There's rage in Potter's eyes too. I can see it. I can feel it. I...know it.

"He won't come back." Potter says, like he's laying down a commandment from God. Moses in a AC/DC t-shirt.

"No." I say in agreement. Because Potter looks like he needs that from someone right now.

"But I like to be prepared." Potter says, a defensive snarl. "Just in case."

"Makes sense." I say. Potter's eyes narrow, as if expecting mockery. I swallow hard and shrug one shoulder. "I would do the same if it were me."

That gets Potter's attention and he settles a little, like a wild animal backing down from a fight.

"I haven't told Ron or Hermione, or...anyone, about that either." Potter confesses. He scowls. "I don't want to scare them."

"And you think they might just tell you that you're being paranoid." I say, because that fits from what I know of Potter and the relationship he has with his closest friends.

Potter sucks in a harsh breathe, looking somewhat startled by my insight. He responds with the verbal equivalent of returning a punch.

"And the other reason why you won't visit your father is because you think he would be disappointed in the man you've allowed yourself to become."

I consider, very briefly, spitting in Potter's face for that one. But what I said was just as cruel, so.

"You're a real bastard sometimes, Potter." I say, leaning back, away from him.

Potter salutes me with his middle finger and says,

"I know."

"And it's your turn." I say, trying not to smile. "Truth or dare."

"Truth."

Of course.

"What was dying like?" I ask.

Potter huffs out a laugh.

"Do you really want to know?"

"No." I say. Because, definitely, _no_.

Potter looks both amused and puzzled by my response.

"Then why would you ask?"

"I wanted to see if you would tell me." I say.

Potter nods, accepting that.

"I won't." He says, voice like white hot metal.

"That bad then." I say.

"Yeah. That bad." Potter says. Then, "Your turn. Truth or dare, Malfoy."

I think I've had enough truth for one night. One lifetime, even.

"Dare." I say, because, yeah, I'm really that drunk.

Potter thinks for a full minute before a smile spreads slowly over his face. Fuck. I'm in trouble.

Potter's eyes dart towards the dance floor. Oh no. No. Absolutely _not_.

Potter slides off his stall with an annoying amount of ease all things considered. He holds his hand out in my direction.

"Dance with me."

"That is...a bloody terrible idea, Potter." I say seriously.

"Yeah." Potter says in agreement. He waggles his fingers at me. "Don't really care."

" _Potter_ -" I try, but it's no good.

"Dance with me." Potter says, a wicked spark flashing in his eyes. "I. Dare. You."

Against my better judgment, and every voice in my head that is screaming for me run. The fuck. _Away_. I take Potter's hand, a whip of fire spindling up my arm in reaction to the contact, and let him lead me to the dance floor.

Potter takes me deep into the throng of dancing people. They're all pressed up against one another, moving with the kind of reckless abandon that was beyond my comprehension when I was their age. Hell, it's beyond me even now. I have no idea what I'm supposed to do here.

Potter half fixes my problem by tightening his grip on my arm and yanking me into his space. Someone bumps into me from behind and I gasp as I lose my balance and fall even further into Potter. I grab hold of Potter's shoulders to stop myself from landing flat on my face on dance floor.

Potter wraps his arm around my waist to help to regain my equilibrium.

His touch, however, has the opposite effect.

Potter is so close to me now that I can smell him. Sweat and alcohol and something earthy that is very male and very Potter. I resist the urge to bury my nose in his throat. But only just. My control is slipping, and it is scary how easy it is for me to imagine pressing my lips to Potter's neck.

I wonder what his stubble would feel like on my tongue if I licked him from throat to jaw.

It's darker on the dance floor, and the strobe lights slide around the room like large, drunk fireflies. Potter's face is illuminated by different colours every few seconds. His eyes glow an otherworldly green that steals the breathe from my lungs.

When Potter begins to move, to dance, I follow his lead. He's clearly more used to this kind of dancing than I am. We lock eyes, and that makes it both easier to move along with the beat and harder to concentrate on dancing at all. **** ~~~~

Potter holds me, strong and firm and a bit painful. I move my arms to twine them around his neck, taking the chance to touch the hair at the back of his head. It feels soft against the skin of my fingers. I tug on it a little, which causes Potter to make a sound that is far too low and gravely to be anything other than a growl. A shot of excitement burns through my stomach. 

I feel hot, impossibly hot, and Potter is so close. Our bodies brush in ways that are far too intimate, and I can barely stand it. Everything and everyone in the building, in the whole entire God damn world, disappear, until it's just the two of us. Hearts racing. Breathing in tandem. Moving together. Touching each other. 

Insanity. This is what insanity is. This right here. I am going insane. And I can't stop it. I can't.

For a truly terrifying moment, I don't even want to.

Potter's hands are warm on my back, holding me in place, guiding us as we dance. All I can do is hold on and match him strike for strike.

When my shirt rides up from the sweat and the fast grind of our movements, one of his hands slip underneath. He touches the hot, damp skin there. It's an electric shock. It's a singe from a flickering flame.

It's a dare.

I let my head fall forward, bumping my forhead against Potter's, my nose brushing his cheek. I can still see his eyes. Close. Too close. Too hot, burning, green pits of fire.

I can taste Potter's breathe like smoke when he asks,

"Afraid Malfoy?"

I know the answer to this one. We've both known since we were twelve years old. It's the same as it's always been.

"You wish."

And that is when Harry bloody Potter **_kisses_** me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented and left kudos, you are the best humany types who ever did be. Truth. xx
> 
> I hope you all liked this chapter, and sorry for taking so long. This was a tough one for me. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone for reading, please let me know what you thought! x


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